queen of the castle
by finaljoy
Summary: Felicity agreed to marry Oliver as a marriage-business merger between Smoak Solutions and Queen Consolidated. What she did not agree to, however, was to marry into the Bratva. Things get complicated when they both start working their own agendas and the other refuses to back down. But that's okay. They both always enjoyed a challenge. (arranged marriage/bratva au)
1. salt looks like sugar

_AN I have so many feelings about this and I need to talk about all of them, but I do not have the space. HERE ARE THE HIGHLIGHTS:_

 _1\. I have been huddled over this story for literally a year and I am Very Excited about it. 2. This is less of a romance and more a study on power dynamics between two strong personalities, so there will be some dabbling in unhealthy relationships, but we will stay in unhealthy territory for as little time as possible. 3. Oliver Queen is my sun, my moon, and my tired, pissed off stars._

 _Thanks again to ThatGypsyWriter and Red Bess Rackham for betaing!_

* * *

Felicity glanced around the honeymoon suite, unable to quell the jitters in her stomach.

Married. She had been married today.

She looked at the wedding dress she was still wearing. It was beautiful, of course. The best money could buy; a delicate cream with a lace covered bodice, beads stitched into the skirt to look like birds of paradise taking flight. Lace made up the sleeves and formed a large cut out on her back. Felicity had shivered every time Oliver settled his hand there.

She should be happy, that was what people were supposed to feel on their wedding day. But all she felt was patient, waiting for the next person to meet, the next photo line to pose for, the next arrangement to be made and for her to be guided there.

"Are you alright?" Oliver asked, coming out from the bathroom. Felicity turned, forcing out a small smile and nod. His words sounded like glass; see-through and a little cold to the touch.

"Just taking it in."

"If you're tired, we don't have to go to dinner."

"No, it's fine. I guess I'm still seeing spots from the cameras."

Everyone with a flash bulb had turned out to see Oliver and Felicity Queen's wedding (or, at least, as much as they could behind the thick wall of security). The hype surrounding it almost made it seem like the world _hadn't_ been aware of the wedding for the last six months.

Oliver's phone went off and he quietly excused himself to the balcony. Felicity glanced down at herself again—the vision in white, the media's new plaything with a new name. The plaything that was now alone. She swallowed and looked back up.

The suite was tasteful; no flower petals strewn everywhere, no hearts to be seen. Just a big, inviting space, full of cream fabric and hard woods. The bed, however, was definitely the most prominent feature of the room.

Felicity glanced toward the balcony door, making sure Oliver was out of sight. This was allegedly her day. She could do something for herself, just this once.

Without taking a second to think about hidden paparazzi, the ever-present rules of decorum, or her wonderfully shaped and very delicate wedding dress, Felicity ran to the bed and vaulted up. She jumped on the exquisite bedding, shoes flying off, enormous skirts pooling up in the air around her. She broke into helpless giggles, then finally flopped onto her back.

She had dreamed of doing this on her wedding day for _years_ , had found solace in it when the drudgery of being engaged grew to be too much. Only, she had always envisioned her husband to be jumping on the bed beside her.

But then, she had never _really_ fooled herself into thinking Oliver Queen was the bed jumping type. She hadn't even considered doing this since her mother had told her of the marriage merger between Queen Consolidated and Smoak Solutions.

Oliver stepped back into the room, eyes fastening on her and the newly trampled bed. She looked at him in slightly breathless surprise, not sure what he would say. He was quiet for a moment, though, once again absorbing every detail in front of him.

"Did you just jump on the bed?"

"Yes." She propped herself up on one elbow, thankful her voice was more defiant than sheepish. He gave a slight huff of amusement, something between a laugh and a sigh. It made her feel awkward, somehow, like he was humoring her by not saying anything else. She hadn't cared before, but now she felt self-conscious. Jumping on the bed was not something the new member of the Queen family was supposed to do.

"Dinner's at eight," he told her, stowing his phone into his tuxedo.

"Alright, I'll be changed by then," Felicity promised. She sat up fully and watched him cross back to the bathroom. She had a feeling that was what this marriage would be like. Watching from the other side of the room.

Dinner was enjoyable. Ignoring the occasional stolen picture by the people around them, Felicity had a nice time. The food was lovely, the music wonderful, and Oliver made interesting conversation. It was just like every other meal they had shared as fiancés. Oliver had mastered idle pleasantries, but the coolness stayed in his eyes and he had a way of looking at Felicity that made her feel like he was analyzing every little thing she did.

The only thing that had really changed was that now he had a ring on his finger, too.

Eventually, they made their way back to their suite. Felicity tried to smother the nerves in her stomach, but she couldn't. This was probably it. This was probably when she and Oliver had sex and sealed the deal.

Oliver held the door open for her, so she was the first one to see the candles.

"Oh, wow," she said, turning slightly to look at them all. They were all a slightly darker cream than the rest of the room, but the candles varied in size from tea lights to large, upright ones. They edged the room, though small islands of light sat on the table, the coffee table, and the dresser.

"They're probably complimentary," Oliver reasoned. He took it all in stride, removing his shoes when he spoke. "Do you want to get rid of them?"

"They're…a little cliché. Especially for us."

It was only when Oliver gave her a look that Felicity realized that maybe she wasn't supposed to point out the contrived nature of their relationship. But then he shrugged and moved past her, sliding out of his suit jacket.

"You're right."

"They can stay, though," she added. "I think they're pretty."

Oliver nodded, but didn't look back at her. Felicity decided she _definitely_ wanted to keep the candles. Things seemed a little less cold in their friendly glow.

Felicity sucked in a breath and pulled off her heels. She took off her jewelry, exceptionally aware of the ring still on her finger. To stall in removing her beautiful and very not sex-optimal dress, she moved into the bathroom to work on the pins in her hair.

"Felicity?"

"Hm?"

"Come here, please."

She paused, then left the bathroom. "Yes?"

"I have something to tell you."

She stood still, watching him. He was sitting on the foot of the bed, but stood up and gestured her closer. Felicity edged nearer, suddenly nervous. His expression had moved from serious to somber.

"Now that we are married, I feel that you should know."

"Know…what?" she asked, narrowing her eyes slightly. Her mind leaped to a number of embarrassing or mortifying things in the moment of silence, each one making her very much _not_ excited.

"The Queen family is part of the Bratva. I am part of the Bratva."

"Wait—what? The Bratva? Isn't that—"

"The Russian mob, yes."

"What? No. _What?_ No, no, that can't—" Felicity broke herself off, shaking her head. She turned her head away but kept her eyes on him, trying to force out a smile. It didn't come.

This had to be a joke. But this was a horrible punchline, and Oliver was _not_ the joking type. Still, the _Russian mob?_ There was no way he could be a part of that, his mother would know, his _sister—_ Thea had problems, but they weren't _mobster_ problems.

"No," she said, shaking her head again. "No, I don't believe you. There's _no way_ you could…no."

His expression didn't change. Oliver kept his eyes on her as he slowly undid his shirt buttons. Felicity watched his hands as she struggled to breathe, as she struggled to figure out why he would tell her such an outrageous lie. He pulled open his shirt. Felicity couldn't help but gasp.

Scars. His whole chest was covered in _scars._ Big, vicious things, some stretching all across his torso. She put a hand to her mouth, horrified.

" _Oliver,_ what happened to you?" she whispered.

"Do you know what this tattoo means?"

"What? No, I—what about those _scars_? How did you get something like that, I mean—how did you _live_ through that?"

"Felicity," he said, voice cutting through her shock. She stared at him, not understanding his perverse calm _._ He was being economical about everything and she _hated_ it. "This tattoo shows that I am a part of the Bratva. The scars are from a mob interrogation."

"Oh my gosh," she breathed, " _oh my gosh._ You—you're part of the _mob? You,_ Oliver Queen—and— _what?"_ Felicity cupped her hands over her mouth, trying to slow her breathing, trying to think.

Here she was learning that her new husband, charming, clever, suave Oliver Queen was a mobster. And he was so, _so_ calm, horribly calm, _disgustingly_ calm, while she was on the verge of becoming a shrieking mess. She stole a look at him, trying to make herself think beyond the sick wrench in her gut.

She was finding out that her husband was part of the mob and it was lit by soft candlelight.

Felicity suddenly felt lightheaded. She stumbled backward, sinking on the couch before she fainted and made a fool out of herself.

The _mob?_ How had she not known? Who _did_ know? Did her mother? No, absolutely not, Donna Smoak would _never_ have let her daughter go into a den of monsters, not of this kind. Moira, did Moira know? Was she aware of the _hell_ that was spread across her son's skin?

Oliver gave her a moment to process, buttoning up his shirt. When he had finished, he began to explain.

"Once we were married, you could not testify against me in court. I thought it best to tell you right away."

" _Thanks,_ " she scoffed through her fingers, eyes fixed on some point on the ground. Felicity looked back at him, mind still spinning. "How high up are you?"

"Very."

"Are you _the_ big bad? _"_

"I do have to answer to some people, but not many."

"And who else knows? Does your family, do they know you're-you're _Bratva_?"

"My mother does."

Felicity gave another tight laugh and shook her head. _Of course_ Moira knew. Now that Felicity was forcing her way through shock, she was hardly surprised. Felicity also did not miss the ' _Thea does **not**_ ' in Oliver's voice. She forced herself to her feet, trying to breathe normally. She grabbed for the armrest to make sure she stayed upright.

"And my mother, will she—no, no she won't find out. But Walter?"

"He's…aware."

"Diggle knows, of course. He's probably a part of it! Oh, no, no, no, no," she whispered to herself, feeling another wave of horror. She _liked_ Diggle. Felicity might not have spoken to him much, but he had always seemed like a good man. That apparently put people in body bags.

Felicity was quiet a moment, marshalling herself.

"What are you expecting from me?" she asked, not looking at Oliver.

"What do you mean?"

"Am I—do I have to—I'm not a part of this, too, am I?"

"No," Oliver said firmly. "You will have no part in this."

"But I'm going to be surrounded by _mobsters,_ " she said, voice hitching up an octave. Felicity closed her eyes on her hysteria and continued. "But I married—"

"The mob, I know."

She was actually going to say 'a monster'.

Felicity needed some time after that. Oliver politely let her retreat to the bathroom, or at least, she imagined it was polite, because she basically sprinted away from him and he didn't say a thing. She stayed in the ridiculously ornate bathroom, staring at clean white tiles and gold accents as her breath hitched and her thoughts scrambled around the room.

She certainly never thought one of her first acts as Felicity Queen would be to have a panic attack.

When she could see straight, Felicity got to shaky but usable legs and looked at herself in the mirror. Red rimmed eyes, makeup ruined, hair a sight, and dress crinkled. Her lovely, cream designer dress, forever stained by the blood of ignorance murdered before her eyes.

Felicity took time to clean herself up. She was slow to take down her hair the rest of the way and wash her face. She removed her earrings, took out her contacts, stared herself in the eye, and dragged in a few long breaths.

She could do this. She could lay by his side for _one night_ until it was morning and she was rested and they could sort all of this out.

Felicity put her head in her hands.

Yesterday, her mother's pep talk had been about just how much sexual prowess she was to show on their first night. Fussy and high maintenance and overwhelming as Donna may have been, Felicity dearly wished for some of her mother's advice on what to do with _this._

* * *

Felicity stared at the ceiling for a long time before moving.

Married to the head of the Starling City mob. The morning after and it still didn't seem real. But it was now her reality.

Last night had been stilted following the big reveal, to say the least. After she left the bathroom, Oliver had looked her over. He saw the bathrobe, the scrubbed face, the evidence of an anxiety he fundamentally could not understand. He saw it and did not say a word.

Silence was the defining power in Oliver, now that he had no need to play nice for the cameras or his fiancée. That was good. If Felicity had to listen to anything other than her own breathing, she might have vomited. Or screamed. Or maybe both. She hadn't decided yet.

Oliver had gone into the bathroom shortly after she came out, giving Felicity the opportunity to change into her night shift in peace. She was in bed with the light off when Oliver came back out. He had stopped and surveyed her for a long moment, his gaze palpable even through the blankets. She closed her eyes when she heard him move around the room, blowing out the candles. She hadn't even had the energy to tense when he climbed in beside her and fell asleep.

Now she had no idea where he was. He wasn't in bed and she couldn't hear him in the room.

Felicity sat up and glanced around. In a couple of hours they would leave this place, off to some pristine, private beach in British Columbia. She had been excited for the misty beaches and beautiful cliffs when presented with the option. Now they seemed like a miserable, rainy jail cell where Oliver was her only visitor.

 _Not that he has any reason to hurt you. He wouldn't tell his secret to anyone he was about to kill. You're an asset,_ Felicity reasoned. She sounded like her mother.

She swung her legs off of the bed. Baby steps. She could get through this with baby steps. Felicity stood up and walked over to the bathrobe she had discarded the night before. It was soft and lovely. She had gone to soft and lovely in the face of finding out that her husband ran a crime organization. She had been trained to be collected and clever in the face of _any_ situation, and it had all gone out the window. Perfect.

The sound of the sliding glass door made Felicity jump. Oliver entered from the balcony, phone yet again in hand. He had pulled on his pants, but was shirtless. She fought not to stare at his scars.

"Good morning," he said.

"Morning. That seems to be your new favorite spot," she said, nodding at the balcony.

"I didn't want to wake you. You looked like you needed the rest."

"Thank you," she said, forcing a smile.

They were quiet for a moment, then he said, "I took the liberty of ordering breakfast. It should be here soon."

Felicity nodded, staring at her feet. She smoothed her hair back from her face and straightened. Felicity edged nearer to Oliver and leaned against a wall.

"How long have you been awake?"

"Since seven."

Last time she had checked the clock, it have been nine.

"What have you been _doing_ all that time?"

"Business, mostly. I promised Mom that I would stop once I left the city."

"Cramming in the last little bits you can?"

"Something like that."

A soft knock sounded on the door, making them both turn.

"Could you…?" Oliver asked, gesturing at the door.

Felicity glanced back at him, shirtless and scarred, then nodded. Soon enough, both Felicity and the food were settled in the middle of the room. Oliver watched her perch on the arm of the couch and pick at a bundle of grapes.

"So, I imagine you have more questions."

"Yes," she said, toying with a grape between her fingers. It felt strange in her hand, too perfect to be handled in such a heavy moment, but she needed something else to do. "I…I just want to get something straight."

Oliver inclined his head like he was giving permission for her to speak. Felicity swallowed, searching for the words.

"What do—Oliver…could you come here please? I can't do this from across the room."

Oliver Queen was not a man to be commanded, but he obediently came over and sat down. Felicity's eyes were back on the grape when she spoke.

"What are you expecting of me?"

"What do you mean?"

"Am I…a part of this? I've married you, but will I be expected to…will I have to—"

"Take part in the crime? Absolutely not. You will be isolated from anything pertaining to the Bratva."

Felicity gave him a long look. He couldn't promise that. He couldn't guarantee that she wouldn't be affected by any of this. Of course he couldn't, she knew enough to realize that some things would be out of his control. But she trusted the solemnity in his eyes. He had been honest this far.

"And as a wife?"

Oliver gave her another look, which Felicity returned with her own dose of iron. "I suppose that depends on what _you_ were expecting."

"Out of us? Out of Starling's new darlings? I thought we'd be like our parents. Arranged matches, here out of duty. Eventually, we might even become friends, but always business partners. Always putting the best foot forward because we had to. In a few years, maybe two, we'd try to become pregnant. A few children, a few more trust funds, a few more heirs."

"And now?"

"I don't want to be our parents," she said, the words forming somewhere around her teeth. The first time she heard them was right along with Oliver. "Not now, things have changed. I'm not going to be a trophy wife that organized brunches and social events, not while my husband's off—"

Felicity chewed on the words. She saw how frosty Oliver's face had become. She needed to figure out where she stood before she started pushing buttons.

"I want my company," she said, clear and firm. She didn't back down from Oliver's near glacial look. "I know it's a part of Queen Consolidated, now, but I run it, I answer to no one, unless it interferes with the rest of your company. I do what I like, and you and your… _job_ stays out of it."

"Fair."

"And—and that's it," she told him, breath coming a little quicker now. "Other than that, business partners, we are just two people living in the same place."

"So you'd like your own room when we return to Starling?"

"Yes," she said, blinking in surprise. She hadn't expected him to be so accommodating _._ Oliver got what he wanted, no matter what. Then again, that was when he actually _cared_ enough to want something. He hadn't wanted _her._ He had wanted her company and her cooperation.

"Alright. I'll make the call before we leave."

Felicity ate the grape. She watched Oliver for a moment, working on a mug of tea and some eggs as he read something off of his phone, thoughts already on something else.

"Is the club your base of operations?"

"Hm?" He didn't take his eyes off his phone, but she knew he heard her.

"Verdant. Is that where you head up the Bratva?"

Oliver looked up, the edges of his mouth barely quirking. "There are multiple sites in the city…but yes, that is what you'd call headquarters."

"And everything else? The little businesses and buildings under your name?" Oliver raised an eyebrow at her, and she shrugged. "I do my research."

"Some are for work…but others are just as they seem."

"A playground for Thea," she surmised, moving on to a croissant. She froze when Oliver gave a single laugh.

"Yes. Some place she can go where I can keep an eye on her." His expression had turned mild, the first one since he had told her his secret last night. Felicity had a feeling that nothing else could soften him the way his family did. He would take steps to keep them safe, even if it meant buying half of the city.

A new thought came into her head, and it made her bite of croissant hard to swallow.

"Am I…in danger because of this?" she asked, forcing herself not to look at her ring (that didn't keep her eyes from flicking to Oliver's hand, though).

At this, he let out another hard laugh. "No. No one would dare try to hurt you."

"Not even, I don't know, rival mafias? Up 'n comings that want to weaken you? That sort of thing?"

"No. They know me to be very motivated by personal attacks."

Felicity kept his eye, even as the image of a very dark Oliver flashed in her head.

"But on the topic of your safety, it would be wise to have a—"

"I'm not having a bodyguard," she interrupted, holding up her hand. Oliver gave her a look and she straightened. "I'm not! Felicity Smoak never needed one before. What's it going to look like when she suddenly needs one after marrying Oliver Queen?"

"Well, it's a good thing we're not worrying about Felicity Smoak, then," he countered. "The chance of a personal attack is small, given my status. But the risk is still there. If you need protection—"

"I'm sure your home and my work are well protected," she said, waving a hand. "I'm not being shadowed by some testosterone-fueled meathead."

"Diggle is a 'meathead'."

" _Diggle_ is one in a million, but also part of the mob!" she stage hissed, because she was still pissed that he had turned out to be a very dangerous criminal. He made _dad jokes,_ for heaven's sake. "If it _really_ makes you feel better, fine, select some grunts. But I'm not using one until I feel I need it."

"That could be after you're put in a pine box."

"Oliver, I'm not doing it. I _refuse_ to be that kind of person. I run a company that produces smart, helpful, brilliant software. There is nothing about my life that necessitates personal security, and I'm certainly not going to allow yours to change it."

" _I_ don't choose who wants to shoot you," he said.

A chill ran up Felicity's spine. He said it like he _had_ dictated hits before. Oliver must have seen it in her eyes, because something closed off in his face, like he had shown too much. He pulled back from the amiable respect he'd had before. Now it was all utilitarian, cold, and hard. There was no room for anything but the next deal.

"Do what you can," Felicity said, "but I'm not having a bodyguard until _I_ say."

"And if I ignore you? Assign you one, anyway?"

"Then I'll make things _very difficult._ "

"How?" Oliver asked, hard amusement in his smile.

Felicity watched him for a long moment. "You're obviously not familiar with having a woman scream and accuse you of assault, are you?"

"Can't cry wolf all the time."

"No, but I can mace them."

"Mace is illegal. And you're not fast enough."

" _Stalking_ is illegal, too, which is what they'd be doing. And I'm crafty."

"And if I opt out for a group of big hairy Russians to follow you around?" he asked, tilting his head and leaning in.

Felicity gave him a sweet smile (this was him teasing, right? He was just testing her?) and said, "Then, Mr. Queen, I'd make your life a personal hell."

"Tempting," he said. He actually sounded curious.


	2. adjust the sails

_AN Thank you everyone for you wonderful response! I am very, VERY excited for this story, and I can only hope you enjoy the things I have in store._

* * *

Married life was beautiful. And empty.

Felicity had never actually been in Oliver's high rise apartment prior to their return to Starling. Its emphasis was on space. Everything was big and open. The main room was open concept, and each room had huge floor to ceiling windows. The apartment should have felt big, full of room for opportunity. But to Felicity, it just felt cold. It was crystalline and uninviting, with its cool colors and layers of chrome and glass. Everything was grey or white, bleached of all but the crispest of colors. Even as Oliver had showed her around, one thing was reaffirmed in Felicity's head; this was not a place to be lived ii. It was for existing until the next appointment or photo line appeared.

(The semblance of a home life, cast in chrome and containing no home at all, she thought, but did not say.)

But Felicity made due. She changed her pristine white bedspread for a lovey crimson down comforter and piled her bed with the comfiest pillows she could find. She filled the apartment with the warm, friendly smells of cooking. Flowers and pictures made their way into the rooms. But not Oliver's. Two people sharing the same space, but respecting each other's privacy. She was very careful in upholding that rule.

Oliver did not notice. Or rather, she _knew_ he noticed, he just did not care.

Felicity was not surprised. She had been right in those first few moments of their honeymoon, even before the revelation about the Bratva. This was a marriage of watching each other from across the room. They were specters searching for a release their spouse could not provide. Even Diggle, Oliver's ever faithful shadow, seemed to notice Felicity more than her husband did.

And that was fine, really. Felicity hadn't imagined any level of closeness with a man whose smiles were always a little bit too perfect to be real. But she had also hoped for _some_ kind of acknowledgement.

Most often, Oliver ignored her. Their honeymoon had been pleasant enough, filled with wine and beautiful, stormy beaches, but all pretense had been dropped when they returned to Starling. It was Felicity's first taste of mob life, pithy and rare as it might have been, and yet Oliver had paid no notice. They had stopped by Verdant before it opened so Felicity could meet Roy, the man who ran the club. Tommy apparently was manager in name only, now that the club had its legs underneath it. His interest seemed to be creating successful businesses, rather than running them.

It appeared normal enough, she had to admit. Felicity had been in Verdant a couple of times, but for some reason she expected there to be a sudden excess of hair oil, a few too many buttons undone on collared shirts, and endless heavy Russian accents. The only real thing of note was Thea quickly stepping out of Roy's office when she heard them coming. Felicity glanced at Oliver, but refrained from commenting when she caught the steely edge of his indifference.

"Give her the tour," Oliver told Roy, then disappeared to make a call. Felicity turned back to Roy, chewing down her annoyance at Oliver's brisk attitude. Roy was nice enough, a little pretty for the mob, maybe, and a little too young for Felicity to be comfortable. Not that she would be comfortable with the mob at _any_ point. She hoped. Maybe.

"So, how's it been treating you?" he asked.

"Well enough, but admittedly it was our _honeymoon,_ so—wait, I'm sorry, how's _what_ been treating me?"

"The life," Roy said, working very hard to bite down his smile. "He told you, right?"

"Yes," Felicity sighed, walking with Roy as he led her deeper into the club. "First thing, in the hotel room."

Roy laughed and it did not sound mean. Felicity tilted her head at him, this boy that had a big, easy smile and more than a few scars on his hands. The scars reminded her just what it was he did. She guessed he was like Oliver in that way. Only, Roy wore them right on the surface, not hidden beneath sleek suits.

"Sounds just like him. Well, certainly makes things easier."

"I won't be a part of this, though," she added. "Not really. I'm mob wife in name, only."

"Yeah, _that's_ true. You're not trashy enough to be a mob wife."

"I resent that on behalf of all stereotyped women everywhere."

"You haven't seen our mob wives," Roy reminded her, and Felicity allowed a smile.

"So," she said, trailing her hand over a VIP table as they passed, "you and Thea."

"Oh, damn, you guys saw her?" Roy gave a sheepish grin and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He may have worn a button down and nice shoes, but there was something irrepressibly Glades about his embarrassed slouch.

"I'm guessing Oliver's okay with it? Y'know, having a thing with the boss's sister?"

"He wasn't, at first. Nearly garroted me first time he saw us kissing."

Felicity laughed, then realized it probably was not a joke.

She was very aware of Oliver's Bratva dealings after that. There was a seriousness that distinguished his job from his work, a set to his shoulders that made him seem so very powerful. His eyes would become impossibly dark, like death itself was hiding in his irises. Sometimes when he came home late, the coldness in his stance was enough to kill. Felicity had stayed up a few times in the first few days, concerned despite his crisp distance from her. She had the excuse of paperwork or reviewing a new program ready in case he asked (he didn't), and gave him a nonchalant hello, to which he would respond with a quiet nod. Even though the action was technically polite, Felicity couldn't help but fear getting frostbite from the absolute coldness that came with mob work.

But that wasn't her concern.

Felicity Queen's only business with Oliver was as his wife, that was all. And though their relationship was a little more austere than she had imagined, they were overall okay, a fact her mother didn't hesitate to point out over lunch one day.

"You're unhappy. Even though he doesn't drag you to awful events, doesn't showcase you like a pet, and doesn't force you to act however he wants or wear whatever he wants?"

Felicity took a deep breath and looked at her mother.

"No, Mom, he doesn't do those things. Which is why I'm not _complaining_ about those things." Felicity had worked incredibly hard to master herself over the years, but her mother _seriously_ tested her ability to not regress into a petulant teenager.

"Just that he doesn't give you enough attention. This, about the man who'd probably give your unmentionables freezer burn if he actually tried to _use_ that chilly little—"

"Mother, don't you dare finish that sentence," Felicity said. She pointedly did not at Donna as she cut into her lamb wellington.

(While Felicity had let it slip that she and Oliver had a disengaged relationship, she had _not_ mentioned it was her idea.)

"You can hardly say I'm wrong. Clearly, it's something he inherited from that frostbitten harpy he calls a mother."

" _Mom,_ " Felicity hissed. She shot her mother a glare, then looked back at her plate. She had _known_ lunch with her mother would be a bad idea. And yet she had still made the reservation.

"My point stands, Fizzy dear," Donna sighed, taking a dainty bite from her beef tartar. "You knew what to expect when you married him."

"I thought I did." Felicity took a hostile sip of her drink. This time her annoyance wasn't all aimed at her mother.

"It could be much worse," Donna said quietly. It did not sound like a passive-aggressive reminder of Felicity's duty to both her husband and their now booming company. Instead, she looked into Felicity's face and honestly reminding her how _lucky_ she was, without the difficult cage most wealthy wives found themselves in. Or the undeniable danger that came with being close to a violent mobster. Or at least, she guessed Oliver was violent. There was no way he could have ranked so high and _not_ personally caused grievous bodily harm.

Felicity allowed a selfish purse of the lips, then gave a defeated sigh. "I know. I know it could be worse."

And that _was_ something Felicity knew. Oliver leaving her alone allowed her to get on with her own life. There was a company to run, charity and social events to plan and attend, an image to uphold, a demanding mother-in-law to impress. And Felicity managed all of these things with astonishing grace. Sure, sometimes there was an unflattering photo taken here or there, and maybe the look in Moira's eyes was more often sated than satisfied, but things worked. Felicity lived up to the Queen legacy and kept Oliver's secret.

Having a distant husband was more of a personal downside than anything. But, as she kept reminding herself, she had prepared for this long before Oliver lifted her veil and gave her an obsidian smile.

* * *

Married life was streamlined and simple.

There weren't many adjustments for Oliver to make after the honeymoon. It took one call to move Felicity into the guest bedroom, and that was it.

When Moira had first introduced the idea of the marriage merger, he had been less than ecstatic. Taking care of a wife hadn't appeared on _any_ of his to-do lists at any point in his life.

"She's a self-sufficient woman, Oliver," Moira had said, pulling out her stern, Mrs. Queen face. "She shows business sense and has an impressive public image. Not to mention she's smarter than most of the people she's in the room with. You'll _hardly_ have to keep her entertained."

The only thing Moira had been concerned about was Felicity's reaction to Oliver's status in the Bratva. But she had passed that with flying colors. Felicity's assimilation of that knowledge into her life was practically effortless. By the time she learned where all the dishes were in the cabinets, they had worked out a system.

He got up for his workout and ate breakfast without waking her. They went to work separately and occasionally met for lunch. Dinner was quick and was followed by work or private time.

She never asked about his Bratva dealings, never asked for anything. Felicity stated her needs when they arose and negotiated when necessary. His mother had been entirely correct in saying she could run things on her own.

There were little deviations from the way Oliver had expected things to work, though. A few days after returning from their honeymoon, Felicity began injecting herself into his apartment. He had first noticed when he came home to discover her apparent hobby for cooking waiting for him on the counter. Then photographs of both their lives appeared in the main room. The curtains were tied back to reveal more of the Starling skyline, and little touches of color spread throughout the apartment.

They were two people existing together, but she was changing the environment.

Of course, none of the situation showed on the outside. _Nothing_ showed on the outside. To Starling, they were the new airtight power couple, the monarchs to bring Starling to its knees. To those that knew them…it wasn't very different.

"Felicity Queen," Tommy said, sweeping an exaggerated bow and kissing Felicity's hand. "It is an _honor_ to finally meet you."

"You were the best man," she said.

"You kissed her at the wedding," Oliver added.

Tommy put his hands up in defense. "Okay, _double teaming_ , and no, I kissed and danced with some girl that wasn't sure if she was a Smoak or a Queen. But _now,_ now she's come into her own, and I'm sure she's going to shake the world lose."

Felicity gave a polite laugh and turned to greet Laurel. There was a light moment of customary compliments about clothes, then Tommy slid in.

"Hey, could you girls go grab our table? I just wanna get a word with Oliver. Business, y'know."

Felicity and Laurel moved away as Tommy stepped to the side of the restaurant door with Oliver.

"So?" he asked expectantly, eyes bright.

"So what?"

"So you've been _married_ and off your honeymoon for two weeks. How is it?"

"It's fine."

Tommy gave him a flat look. "'Fine' is only applicable to sandpaper and a girl's ass, Oliver, and I _know_ that's not what you're talking about here."

"How do you know?"

" _Oliver,_ " Tommy said, and his expression turned a little more serious, "I saw the way you stand next to her. There was nothing there that indicated you found your wife attractive."

"Felicity's pretty. And very intelligent."

" _Yes,_ she is. And you just said them like they were stock options."

Oliver gave him a reassuring smile and put a hand on Tommy's shoulder. "I'm _okay._ We've got a system and it's working."

"Okay. Okay," Tommy said, and instantly his big, sunshiney smile was back. "Then why're we waiting to spoil ourselves on good food and gorgeous women?"

Lunch was pleasant, despite Tommy's reservations. Felicity smiled and laughed and was more than polite. She sat next to Oliver and acted like his hand on her back or arm or thigh was the only setting she knew. Her whole image was flawless. And in the car, as they headed back to their respective offices, she found her side of the car while Oliver settled into his. She knew how things worked.

He appreciated that about her. Felicity picked up on things right away, and only let others see it when it was to her benefit. In business, she could surprise the opposition at the last second. In marriage, she adjusted without ever having to be told a word. If she had any desire to join the mob, that skill would have served her beautifully.

There were many benefits to having Felicity as his wife. She was not only frank and determined to get what she wanted, but also exceptionally clever. Given ten minutes and the right outfit, Oliver was certain Felicity could handle any situation. It really was like winning fate's lottery.

But Oliver would never forget the little moment on their honeymoon when the assets and cold statistics had been stripped away, leaving only Felicity behind. It had been the only time since the wedding that he had thought _maybe_ things weren't so effortlessly wrought.

Felicity had been sitting in the living room of their vacation house, staring at the beach through the windows. She had her knees pulled up to her chin, nestled neatly into the corner of the sofa.

"I keep expecting things to feel different," she murmured. When she looked at him, when he saw the vague question of loss and emptiness in her eyes, he felt the solitary flicker of ' _maybe this is a mistake'_. "Does it feel like things have stopped being the same?"

"No."

"I didn't think so," she had said, and looked back to the waves.

Other than that, things had been perfect. Functional, simple, completely straightforward. There was no clutter with newly wed affection he did not feel.

* * *

"Oh, you two look _extraordinary,_ " cooed some woman with too much plastic surgery and not enough balance cooed at them. Felicity and Oliver flashed her a smile in tandem, because that was what they were—a shiny ideal no one else could reach. Two attractive, successful, rich, and intelligent people, married and bound to dominate the world.

They also shared the trait of deeply disliking pretentious social gatherings, but there they were in their designer labels and people pleasing smiles, ready to mingle. Not even the power couple of Starling City was enough to face the might of Moira Queen's displeasure, though Felicity would have dearly loved to.

Moira knew one thing better than anyone else; the world loved the Queens, and it would only continue to do so if they played their cards just right. So long as they kept appearing in the spotlight with enough glamour and grace, they could do anything. Even the tragedies and scandals could be spun. Robert Queen's death five years before had been treated as the continuation of the Queen dynasty as Oliver took the throne. Thea's less charming campaign through the tabloids as an addict and a wreck was written of as the unfortunate byproduct of the pressure facing the young and privileged. There were critics, but they were few and far between.

So long as the Queens entertained the public, they could get away with murder. Which meant going to every damn social gathering Moira had penciled into their planners. Felicity hoped she would adjust to being an A-lister soon.

She glided through the crowds of this particular charity gala, Oliver's hand consistently there to guide her through. Felicity didn't notice most of the time, his hand on her arm or shoulder acting as just another prop in their flawless game of pretend. But sometimes she would feel his palm on the small of her back, pushing her forward a beat before she was ready to move. Only years of practice kept Felicity's smile from turning waxy.

"Ah, here we are," Tommy said, appearing out of the crowd. He was holding two champagne flutes and handed them off to Oliver and Felicity. "So, what do you think so far?"

"This event is rich people guilt."

"Societal rules say I can't eat a thing."

Oliver and Felicity blinked and stared awkwardly at Tommy as they all tried to process what they both had said.

(Acute guilt for the poor starving children of some unimportant third world country was not at all designed for benefiting the intendees and Oliver and everyone else totally knew it.)

(Felicity couldn't let her stomach pooch for fear of media and societal backlash, which was narrow minded and sexist and _stupid_ because those mushroom tarts looked _amazing._ )

" _Okay,_ that was more of an ironic rhetorical thing, but whatever," Tommy said. "I'm going to retreat over there before your combined cynicism takes out an eye."

"Who's losing an eye?" Laurel asked, appearing at Tommy's side. She looked lovely in a dark pink dress and golden heels.

"Probably me. I'm not enough of a party pooper to fend off their attacks," Tommy said, settling an arm around her waist. Felicity was suddenly very aware of Oliver's hand dominating the small of her own back.

"Excuse me, excuse me," a voice called over the speakers. Everyone turned to see an aging woman holding a microphone and offering simpering smiles from the stage. "Thank you, everyone, for your valuable energy and support in our quest to help alleviate some of the terrible strife plaguing…"

Felicity kept her look of pleasant engagement in place, waiting for the speech to be over. She glanced at the upturned faces around her. All were varying degrees of dutiful interest. Oliver's eyes were dispassionate, focused on something else. Felicity could practically see the Bratva tattoo singeing through his exquisite suit.

It had been one disinterested month since they had been married, but Felicity had become _very_ good at reading her husband. She couldn't read him like his family could, but she always knew when his thoughts switched to the Bratva. There was always a coldness to his touch when it happened, a steeliness to his gaze that only she seemed to recognize as dangerous and not alluring.

Right now, he was undoubtedly taking the moment to focus on what plans needed to be carried out. When the speech was over, he would give a bright and charismatic smile, talk to a couple more people, then go to make a call. She knew the way his voice would drop while he spoke to the man on the other side of the phone, knew how it would become a little more gravelly, a little more frigid. Then he would swing back into the crowd like nothing had happened. He would be nothing but Oliver Queen then, the charming billionaire businessman that kept the world in his pocket, but enjoyed letting it out for a stroll once in a while.

And then the party would be over and they would go home. Oliver would disappear in his big, dark room until he came home the next night.

The woman waxing poetic on the stage wound to a close, and then the hall was filled with polite applause. Laurel and Tommy disappeared to go charm a potential investor for Laurel's law firm, CNRI, leaving Felicity and Oliver alone once more.

"There's Tiffany Hammond," Felicity pointed out, gesturing with her untouched champagne flute.

Tiffany Hammond was the face of a new green energy company. She wasn't high profile enough to already know them, but she had enough of a name to qualify as mingling.

"Does she seem sober to you?" he asked, tilting his head in thought.

Felicity tamped down on her smile. One thing could always be said for their social outings—they made Oliver really listen to her.

"Definitely too tipsy to be wearing those heels," Felicity remarked, watching the woman laugh and smack someone's shoulder.

"I don't feel like fighting her booze tonight," Oliver said, turning Felicity away.

"Oliver?"

"Yes?"

"Did you know I graduated MIT at twenty?"

"Yes, I did."

"So you know that makes me practically a genius."

"Yes. I supposed it does."

"So that _also_ means I am entirely qualified to walk across this room without you guiding me like a horse." She took a delicate sip of champagne as Oliver turned to look at her.

She was _so_ channeling her mother just then.

Oliver opened his mouth to say something, hand falling away from her back, but she was spared from the next part of their conversation by Thea bounding over.

"Hey, you two," she beamed, stopping before them. She wore a glittery blue number that was entirely too slinky for a minor. "You look like you're having _so_ much fun."

"And you're not?"

" _I've_ got other plans," she said, smug enough to be cute. Oliver was immediately suspicious.

"Plans? Where? An after—"

" _Relax,_ there's no after party. It's Roy," she explained, lowering her voice a little. "He promised me a Big Belly Burger with fries _and_ a shake if I didn't force him to come along tonight. Said he didn't have a tux and would feel claustrophobic if I bought him one."

Felicity thought Thea's eye roll was positively Olympic.

"He's been working all week," Thea continued. "Some systems upgrade or whatever at the club, right Ollie? Anyways, in exactly one hour I'll be the proud owner of a chocolate shake. Cover for me with Mom?"

"If you promise you'll _just_ be with Roy," Oliver said, cracking a beleaguered but indulgent smile.

"You're the _best,_ " Thea chirped, then bounced off.

"Roy's not working on a systems upgrade, is he?" Felicity asked, flawlessly pleasant expression still in place as she glanced over the room.

"No, he is not," Oliver said, then looked at her. Felicity covered herself by frantically searching for someone else to speak to.

That was the closest they had ever come to speaking about Oliver's Bratva work. Add on top of that her snarky comment a few moments before…

She was not doing a fantastic job of flying under the radar. Felicity may have wrangled a deal on their wedding night, but she had the distinct impression that if she started causing problems, Oliver would swoop in and meddle with her business (both on a public _and_ private scale). The look he gave her now only reaffirmed the idea

"Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Queen!" a cheery voice called, saving Felicity from Oliver's staring. Felicity turned, a pleasant, surprised smile already on her face. She could feel Oliver doing the same.

Felicity recognized the man's face, but couldn't put a name to the bright smile and lean tuxedo. Felicity was almost a little concerned about just how intense his grin was. Clearly, he didn't know how to ration his smiles. He was likely to burn out before the end of the night.

"Ray Palmer," he said, giving Oliver's hand a quick pump and kissing Felicity's hand. It felt like an overly excited kid pecking her fingers.

Felicity's mental catalog scrolled through to his name. He had recently bought a dying technology company and revamped it under the name 'Palmer Tech'. He did most of his work out of Coast City, but she had heard of him more and more around the international circuit.

"Palmer?" Oliver asked, effortlessly sliding into his business persona. "I heard you solidified a real date for your new computer. Sounds promising."

"More than a computer, actually. It's a system thing. Computer, phone, smart watch, tablet—it should be organic to all of those. Not that Queen Consolidated should have much to worry about, considering how many markets they're tied to. Your wife's company, however, might find us a little more challenging."

"I don't mind a bit of a challenge," Felicity said. She gave him her eight-to-five smile, the one that made Moira looked so pleased. Crisp, cool, friendly when it needed to be. Giving away no secrets. "Besides, Smoak Solutions is examining security systems right now. Civilian operating systems don't really factor in."

"Oh, I think you'd be surprised," Ray said, and somehow, the grin he flashed her was cocky but charming. Felicity felt herself thaw, just a bit.

Oliver's phone buzzed, drawing his attention away from the conversation. "Would you excuse me a moment? Ray, if you could entertain my wife...?" It was phrased as a hopeful request, but Oliver was already walking away, phone to his ear.

"Anything for a little corporate espionage," he joked, raising an eyebrow at her. "So, security systems. You called the operating system 'civilian'. Does that mean yours isn't?"

"It's not military grade, if that's what you're asking."

"But who do you expect to use it? Security companies, paramilitary groups? A corporate rival intent on subterfuge by hiding all his plans on an opposing system?"

"If you _did_ have the brass to use a Smoak Solutions system to hide your work, I can promise you I would not send people in to steal information from it," Felicity said, laughing into her champagne.

"But you would otherwise?"

"I don't need to. 'Smoak Solutions is the solution to all our technological problems of the future', after all."

"No fair, you can't quote the Tech Today article on your company!"

"I am only using what God gave me. And I do believe they gave Palmer Tech a fair nod."

"As an object of comparison," he grumped, but even that was done with a barely repressed grin.

Felicity laughed, then considered him. She had heard Ray Palmer was an upbeat character, but she hadn't thought it would be so infectious.

"I'm sorry about that," Oliver said, reappearing with a hand on Felicity's arm. "Business, you understand."

"Of course, yes," Ray said with a semi-serious nod. "We're all business people here. Anyways, the both of you, enjoy the evening. And keep an eye out for the new system," he told Felicity, grinning and pointing as he walked away.

"Something to worry about?" Oliver asked her. She watched Ray disappear into the crowd.

"No, just some friendly competition. He thinks Palmer Tech will beat us out."

"As long as you're confident," Oliver said. Felicity could hear him switching tracks with a single breath. "There's someone I want you to meet."

"Oh?" she asked, once more scanning the room. She didn't need to see the mobster in her husband's eyes.

"Not here. He's a good friend of mine. We worked together closely the last few years."

"Part of the family business, I take it?" she asked, lips curved in yet another mild smile.

"Yes."

"Alright."

Felicity did not miss the look he cast her as she pointedly strode over to a so-and-so and started conversation. Oh, she was on thin ice and _loving_ every second of it.

Oliver didn't resume the topic until they were in the car.

"I want you to meet him," he said, offering absolutely no preamble. He didn't sound like the smooth billionaire anymore. He sounded cold.

"Yes, I know. You said that before."

"You don't want to."

"Did _I_ say that before?" Felicity looked at him over the sterile swathe of no man's land. His eyes did not say he was playing her game. Which was a damn shame, considering she had played nice with him all night and she was more than a little cranky after hours of laughing and charming and performing for people she generally disliked at an event she hadn't even wanted to go to.

"Felicity."

It was amazing how her own name could be contorted into a warning.

"Yes, Oliver?" she asked, raising an eyebrow

"This is important. I need you to meet him. It has been a month since—"

"Since we agreed I wouldn't have any part in this?" she asked sharply. Felicity knew from the way he narrowed his eyes that very _few_ people got away with interrupting him. Well, good. It was time he learned she was to be treated differently. "Because, Oliver, I thought that was how long it had been. Must have been a lot longer, if you're already forgetting."

"I haven't forgotten," he said quietly. "This isn't _involving_ you. I just need you to meet."

"For _what_?" she snapped. "I haven't had to meet anyone else."

"You've met Diggle and Roy."

"Yeah. We both know this is different."

"They are both _very_ important to this. You may not be involved, but you can't afford to be ignorant."

"And who is this guy? Your bookie?"

"A very good friend," Oliver grit out, and it occurred to Felicity that his hesitancy was because he _had_ promised her distance from the mob.

She hissed a sigh and stared at the window. "Why? If he's never come up before, why now?"

"You can always use new friends."

"I have friends," Felicity said. "I know them already, for one. I've made plans to have lunch with one of them tomorrow, in fact. This man? He's not my friend. He's my husband's _lapdog."_

That was less than a smart move.

Oliver shaded his eyes with his hand and growled something in Russian. Felicity swallowed. Oliver speaking in Russian was like listening to a river of dark chocolate with a silent tongue of ricin mixed in upstream. Low and delicious and so exquisitely lethal.

When he looked back at her, his eyes had turned to crystal. "He is very important to me. He has helped me with far more than you could even know. You will _not_ speak about him like that."

"I'm sorry," Felicity murmured, dropping her eyes. She found that she wasn't.

"Now, I want you to meet him because he is valuable to know and better to have as an ally. He is going to train you, as you're refusing a bodyguard."

" _Train_ me? In self-defense?"

"Ideally."

Felicity gave Oliver a long look but stayed silent.

"You _will_ listen to him. He is far above this, but he is doing it as a personal favor to me."

"Do I at least get to know his _name_?"

"You'll learn when you meet him."

"And when is that?"

"Tomorrow after lunch with your other friend."

Felicity didn't say anything.

* * *

 _AN they are both in a world of hurt if they underestimate each other and i am so excited_


	3. make new friends

_AN okay so i know i am the author of the olicity fake relationship chick flick thing, but this story is basically house of cards. do not be fooled._

* * *

"Oliver's having you meet a friend?" Caitlin asked, eyebrow raised.

"Supposedly," Felicity sighed, taking a sip of her cherry Sprite.

"Okay, well, that's not worth the doom and gloom. It's a drive by meeting. You say hi and he's gone." Caitlin was one of those women who, despite her cynicism toward most things not involving lengthy reports and empirical evidence, had an amazingly optimistic take on life. She genuinely didn't believe in the passive battle of wills that was Felicity's marriage.

"See, that's the thing, Cait," she sighed. "Oliver doesn't _have_ friends, excepting Tommy, but he's more like a brother or something. He has _employees_ and _associates_."

"And you."

"What?"

"You're in the weird-other-Tommy group. You're his _business partner._ "

"I'm his wife," Felicity corrected.

Caitlin raised both eyebrows this time, which made her look _very_ judgmental. "Did that have a hard time coming out? I assume it did, considering all of the times you've complained about the fake, hatefully capitalistic reasons for your marriage."

"You're making me sound like some spiteful communist," Felicity grumbled into her soup.

"Look, all I'm saying is…this isn't a bad thing?" Caitlin said, leaning closer to Felicity. "He's thawing enough to want you to know his people."

"This isn't a social visit, Caitlin," Felicity told her. She could still feel the snake of Oliver's annoyance across her skin. She had definitely pushed too far last night.

"Then what is it?" she asked.

Caitlin came from the cuddly side of the rich person market, and therefore had little personal experience with how cutthroat a simple meeting could be. Rather than deal with technology, major resources, or fashion, her family ran the biggest olive oil company out of Greece. Despite the political upheaval in the country (or the 'Great Flustercake of Stupid', as Caitlin liked to call it), her family had clean, reliable, renewable oil. Caitlin spent her time dealing with Michelin chefs and respected magazine editors, not moguls with ice on their tongues and the mob in their pockets. It was a cute life, in a boring, foodie kind of way.

"It's a power play," Felicity said grimly. The words left her tongue before she realized there were true.

"Okay, well, I'm glad we got that bit of drama out of the way. Now we can have a mature, grown up conversation."

"You didn't hear the way he said it," Felicity said softly.

Caitlin gave her a long look. She ate some spinach and strawberry salad, took a delicate sip of her drink.

"How did he say it, Felicity?" she asked.

Felicity pursed her lips at the undercurrent of ' _did he hurt you?'_ in her voice. That was the second time she had had this conversation, and she was getting tired of denying that Oliver was being…Oliver hurting…that things were worse between them. She liked to think she was capable enough to get out of an unhealthy relationship on her own, mob be damned.

"He just…I pushed him too far," Felicity admitted, putting down her spoon. "I knew this was important and he doesn't _ask_ very much from me—even though it was more of a _demand,_ if we're being honest—but I wanted to prove a point. All night he was guiding me around like a show pony, so I pushed back. I called his friend his lapdog."

"Wow," Caitlin said, glass of water forgotten halfway to her lips. "That was…definitely not the _best_ thing you could have done."

"I know. I was just so _annoyed,_ but the way he responded was just…icy. He's definitely not the most _cuddly_ of people, but this…Caitlin, it was not good."

"Well, I guess that's what you get when you insult his favorite lapdog."

"Ugh, that was so _stupid_ of me."

"Then make up for it."

"How?" Felicity asked, dejectedly swirling her spoon in her bowl. Moira wouldn't approve of her sulky teenish behavior, but Moira had a glacier up her ass and Felicity wanted to sulk. "That actually implies being close enough with him to know what I _can_ do to make it up to him. As is, all I know is that we're beyond an 'I owe you a favor' or an expensive bottle of wine."

"I dunno, you'll find something. That genius brain of yours can't just be for technology."

"Clearly it is, otherwise I never would have said anything."

"And then you wouldn't have stood up for yourself," Caitlin pointed out, tossing her napkin at Felicity. "You just need to figure out how to be assert and not inflammatory."

"It sounds so easy when _you_ say it."

"So when are you meeting this mystery friend?"

"After this," Felicity sighed.

"Okay. Then you can play nice, be buddy-buddy with him, make Oliver happy, then you can make it up to him. Make Smoak Solutions go up a few stock points or something."

Felicity snorted, because that probably _was_ the only way Oliver understood an apology.

* * *

Felicity turned the page of her book and tried to pretend she wasn't eyeing down the clock. She had been home for an hour, quietly fighting her nerves over meeting Oliver's friend. She had spruced up the immaculate apartment, checked her flawless appearance, skimmed the unchanged reports from earlier that day. Oliver and his friend still had not appeared.

She found herself strangely desperate to make this man like her, mob connection or no. Felicity wasn't sure if it was normal first impression anxiety or the frigid edge in Oliver's eyes when he told her, but Felicity _needed_ to do this. She wanted him to meet _her,_ not Mrs. Oliver Queen.

The door unlocked, making her jump. She stood up from the table and smoothed her hands over her skirt as Oliver pushed open the door. She zeroed in on the man just behind Oliver, storing as many details as possible.

He was shorter than Oliver, but also sturdier. He had midtoned skin, with dark hair and scruff. His clothes were nice, but Felicity noticed his dark leather jacket and boots were well-worn like he actually _lived_ in them, rather than tugged them brand new off the rack every morning.

"Felicity," Oliver said, like he was welcoming her into his office and not walking into their home, "this is Slade Wilson, a close friend of mine, and hopefully a close friend for you, too."

"Mr. Wilson," Felicity said, stepping forward and offering a hand, "I'm pleased to be able to meet you." His handshake was predictably solid, but she had the distinct impression he was making an effort _not_ to crush her fingers.

"The pleasure is all mine," he said, his voice genuinely sounding like an animal's growl. He gave her a wide smile, though, one that seemed honestly pleased to meet her.

She didn't miss how it was all canines. If Oliver could kill a man with a look, Slade could kill one with his teeth. Probably had, too.

"If you'll excuse me, I just need to grab something from the study," Oliver said, sliding out of the room. She would never not marvel at how he managed to phrase his statements and orders like requests.

"I feel terrible for not having met you sooner," Felicity continued, an earnest, if slightly regretful smile stretching across her face. She could feel Oliver's attention pinned on her, even from the other room. He must not have been worried about her acting up if he was comfortable enough to leave her alone. Of course, he was right. She was doing exactly what he wanted.

The thought grated at her skin.

Slade laughed and shrugged, but it wasn't the greased forgiveness she was used to dealing with from high rollers and their friends. Slade genuinely didn't seem to care.

"Oliver said that you were to train me?" Felicity continued.

"Yes," Oliver said, reappearing in the room as if on cue. Her gaze flickered to him for the barest moment before she could stop herself. "Slade has agreed to help train you in self-defense, in case worse comes to worst."

"Well, thank you. Oliver made it clear you are more than qualified to teach me. I appreciate your time, Mr. Wilson."

"It's not a problem. And call me Slade—everything else is a mouthful."

"If you insist," she said, this time giving him a more honest smile.

"We'll get the details worked out for when you two can meet," Oliver said, picking up the conversation and guiding it back out the door. "I'll be home late," he told Felicity. Slade was already backing out of the apartment.

"Alright," Felicity said, hands clasped together as she watched Oliver close the door behind them.

She stood there for a few long moments, waiting like she expected them to come back. She felt…lonely with them gone.

She dragged in a harsh breath.

Felicity Smoak was an independent wealthy socialite, even without the added might of the Queen name and fortune behind her. She was a genius, held multiple degrees, and ran a successful and cutting edge company. But in the face of her husband, she was reduced to a dress in the doorway, smiling him in and sighing him out. She didn't ask what he was doing, didn't warn him to be safe, didn't even pretend to bother with an ' _I love you'_. Felicity was just there to witness his friend's existence, and then Oliver was done with her.

She sat down. A bad taste lingered on the back of her tongue.

This wasn't how any of it was supposed to turn out. She and Oliver had agreed on a sterile coexistence, not…whatever _this_ was _._ Not her obeying Oliver because he used his scary voice.

It had begun as an effort to avoid any and all interaction with the Bratva, she thought. But a mobster had just walked through her front door and shaken her hand. Her beautiful, golden rule of ' _do not involve me with_ any _mob dealings'_ had just been shot to smithereens, and she had gone along with it.

Felicity grabbed her phone and selected a contact on a whim. Her leg bounced as the phone dialed.

"Thea? Hey, yeah, I know this is a bit out of the blue," Felicity said, giving her best celebrity smile because she knew it always showed in her voice. "I was just wondering…if you're not doing homework or something, do you want to head into town? Yeah, I was just thinking I needed a little business-free time."

Less than an hour later, Felicity was sitting in the back seat of a car, Thea at her side.

" _Thank_ you," Thea sighed, dramatically lounging over half the back seat. "Literally two more seconds and Trig was going to melt my brain."

"No problem," Felicity chuckled. "Is it tough to handle, or is it just a lot of work to do?"

"No, I've got it fine, but we're doing proofs and it's just _soooooo looooooooong._ So now I get to purge with some nice Prada therapy."

"Glad I could help."

Thea allowed a few more minutes of bubbly, idle chatter before she abruptly slid a dagger of perception into Felicity's ribs.

"So, why the shopping trip? I mean, I totally don't mind and I like you, but we're not exactly _shopping buds_."

"I thought we could both use a break," Felicity said with a shrug. "We're not exceptionally close, but I would like to change that, at least a little."

"Mm-hm," Thea said, almost sounding like she believe Felicity. "I just thought your secretary would have called to schedule it ahead of time."

Felicity smiled and glanced out of the window like she didn't notice the way Thea was staring her down. Oliver did that; a mild smile mixed with half-lidded, steel-hardened eyes. Only, he did it from the other side of the car, not with his knee bumping into hers and a friendly distance between their elbows.

"I met one of Oliver's friends today," Felicity said, like it was a new topic of conversation and not an explanation.

"Oh yeah? Who?"

"Slade Wilson."

"The guy that looks like he wrestles bears on a mountainside for fun?"

"Yes," Felicity laughed.

"Yeah, I've met him a few times. Good guy, just…intense. I mean, I love Ollie, I really do, but the vast majority of his friends are terrifying. Except for Tommy and Roy, I would _not_ want to be caught alone with any of them. They look like they might break my legs in a dark alley."

Felicity skipped over the joking suggestion Thea had made (that was entirely plausible) and instead pursued a less devastating line of conversation.

"How _did_ you two meet, anyway? You and Roy, I mean. You're not exactly running in the same social circles."

"I know," Thea said, rolling her eyes and leaning against the window. Normally, when the social disparity between Thea and Roy was brought up, her immediate reaction was to double down on the ice defense and snipe the other person into a new topic. But here, safe from the judgmental eyes of the media and other trust fund babies, Thea had an honest smile on her face. It was like she was finally allowing herself to find the hassle of dating Roy as charming.

"Ollie was actually the one that introduced us. Ollie was initially Tommy's business partner for Verdant, but Tommy got kinda bored and moved on, right? So when Tommy decided to make a business of starting things but never finishing them, Oliver needed a new person to run the club. I can't legally be around alcohol, so he had to look somewhere else."

"And Roy cropped up?" Felicity asked, wondering just how long Roy had been a part of the mob. How close had he been to Oliver when assigned to run Oliver's main Bratva cover? Now that she thought about it, Roy wasn't much older than Thea, and yet he was already second to Oliver Queen and manager of Verdant.

The thought made her stomach flip.

"Yep. Ollie wanted to get as many people from the Glades to work there as possible, so it wasn't _just_ rich brats coming in and gentrifying the hell out of the place. Roy was one of the people to apply. So, one day when I dropped by they were talking, and the rest has just been further causes for Oliver to go prematurely grey."

"I bet," Felicity chuckled, thinking of Roy's comments on the same thing. _Nearly garotted me the first time he caught us kissing._

"It's good, though," Thea mused. "He and Oliver get along, which is nice. If things ever go farther along…"

"Do you want them to?"

Thea glanced at her, a guilty look in her eye. She clearly struggled with the choice whether to admit or deny, trying to read the answer Felicity wanted. Felicity sighed and stared out her own window. She looked back at Thea, a tired smile stretching her lips.

"I know _I_ did the 'right thing', the _proper_ thing, but it doesn't mean _you_ have to. Oliver and I…are not what you call a _blissful_ example of marriage."

"Is that why you called me?" Thea asked, voice soft. Felicity gave her another look, slightly alarmed. Thea rolled her eyes and made a face that said ' _come on'._ "It's _clearly_ not because you thought Slade was scary."

Felicity shrugged as the car rolled to a stop. The driver opened the door, sparing her from explaining just yet. Thea pointedly raised an eyebrow, but let the subject drop.

They bounced from store to store, browsing for the sake of browsing rather than with the intent to buy anything. Thea nearly laughed out loud when Felicity hinted after a few stores that she had what she needed, then guided her to jewelry, shoes, handbags, and basically anything that could go on a person's body.

Felicity could tell Thea was playing along with her attempt at distracting herself, and was grateful the girl didn't draw any attention to it. Thea kept appearing with stark, daring outfits that Felicity Smoak would barely consider and Felicity Queen would _never_ wear, but a growing part of her wondered _why the hell not?_ To Thea's delight, a few bright, playful dresses found their way in with the usual jewel tones and sleek silhouettes that inhabited Felicity's wardrobe.

"I told you," Thea said, over their illicit lunch of street vendor falalfel ( _it'll go directly to your hips,_ a voice uncomfortably like Moira's said in Felicity's head), "Prada therapy. _Always_ works."

"I don't think I actually have any Prada," Felicity mused, nudging her bags.

"I do," Thea chirped. She took a sip of her lemonade and leaned back on the wall they were sitting on.

They had barricaded themselves in a secluded courtyard tucked between several drab office buildings in an attempt to avoid any unflattering pictures from the paparazzi. It was surprisingly picturesque, with a fountain burbling behind them and flowerbeds of light pink petunias shifting in the wind.

"You've got some _really_ good choices in there, though," Thea continued. She bumped Felicity's bag with her toe, nodding. "Ollie's going to rethink any uncharitable thoughts about your spree when he sees you in _those._ "

"That's about the only way I'd get him to look at me—lure him in with a blown budget," Felicity snorted, then froze. Thea gave her a hard look, pretty features pulled into something serious.

"You wanna tell me the whole thing, or do we have to keep pulling teeth?" she asked.

Felicity let out a short sigh and adjusted her skirt. Other than Caitlin, no one knew of her marital troubles (or lack of marital anything, if she was being honest). Of course, people _saw_ the little fragments shaking loose when the cameras were not around, but she'd never said, never pieced them together out loud. And Felicity liked Thea, she really did, but as they had both established, they were _not_ on the confidante status. Even if they were, Thea, _Oliver's sister,_ was _not_ Felicity's first candidate for confession. No one was.

"Being a Queen is…difficult," Felicity began, settling on a tone between 'CEO' and 'admitting is the first step to recovery'. "I knew that, I knew _exactly_ what I was walking into when we sat down for talks about the business merger."

Minus the mob. And the vague worry of injury or arrest. And a pervasive sense of loneliness. Though, that wasn't _quite_ true. She'd known full well she would be asking for attention from an iceberg.

"But?" Thea prompted, voice gentle.

Thea was so unlike her brother in many ways. Felicity didn't know if it was the mob, Moira, Queen Consolidated, or Oliver's inherent personality, but there was a hardness to him that his sister lacked.

"He doesn't look at me," Felicity told the other side of the courtyard. "When I'm not striking a deal, when I'm not offering reports from my company or bartering for a lunch meeting or posing for a social event on his arm, he looks right past me." She glanced at Thea, smile tight. "And that's what I realized today. When Slade came to the apartment today, he didn't know me, but he looked like he _wanted_ to. And Oliver…it felt like he was stopping that. Me _actually_ getting to know this man didn't figure into his plans, so he kept moving. I don't get to say anything that doesn't suit his needs."

Felicity looked away again. She didn't know how Thea would react. Oliver and Moira were easy to predict; they'd absorb the information with platinum poker faces, give an insincere smile, then strike back with a blunt, heartless reprimand. They were the same creature, Oliver flawlessly engineered in his mother's image. Thea, though, Thea had feelings and they pinwheeled around with awesome intensity.

At the moment, Thea wasn't doing much pinwheeling. She frowned at her hands, weighing Felicity's words like she _hadn't_ just called Thea's brother clinical and heartless.

"Bearing in mind," Thea said slowly, "that I am a reforming partier and substance abuser who does not make the best decisions…I think I know how to help."

"What?" Felicity asked, voice breaking slightly. She sounded like she had a head cold, which was ridiculous because she wasn't _upset._ She straightened. "You're going to…help me? I mean, I'm not looking for…this is your _brother._ I don't want to make things…weird."

Thea gave a pointed snort, tipping her head back and slapping her knee and everything. Her expression was set when she turned back to Felicity.

"Yeah, this is my brother. He is morally obligated to love me, despite any and all meddling. And I know he's hard to connect with. But you want him to look at you, right? To view you as more than a thing on his tool belt? Then I think I can help."

Felicity watched Thea for a long moment, then broke into a smile. "Thank you, then. What…do you have in mind?"

"Okay," Thea sighed, "this is where we come back to the partying and substance abuse. I learned really quick that the whole robotic, flawless personality thing was _not_ for me. So when I was good but not perfect, Mom and Oliver kinda put me to the side."

"That's awful," Felicity murmured. Then again, Felicity could see Donna putting a pin in a less suitable star child while she groomed her heir apparent. That was just how some things worked.

"No, it wasn't _awful_. They didn't forget I was there or anything, I just…wasn't always the focus." Thea swallowed, and Felicity had a feeling she wasn't the only person voicing unheard secrets. "But, you know, when I wanted more than a kiss on the cheek and a 'Sorry, Speedy, I've got other plans,' I realized being good wasn't the way to go. Which spun wildly out of control."

"See the partying and substance abuse." Felicity blinked at the teary surprise in her chest as things clicked into place.

Thea nodded, taking a resigned bite out of her falafel. "Yeah, definitely not my best move. But it worked. Mom and Ollie cracked down and started giving me the time of day."

"Getting smeared across rag mags is _not_ an option for me, though," Felicity sighed, sipping her lemonade. Thea gave a self-deprecating smile and nodded.

"No. But _you_ know how to work things so it's not 'Felicity, you've disappointed us, dishonoring the family name', so on and so on. You could _seriously_ make this work."

"What are you suggesting?"

Thea's grin turned perfectly devilish as she draped her arms over her knees. "I'm saying you need to wreck Oliver's shit. You kick up enough of a fuss, you make enough of a problem, and I promise you won't be the reliable fixture on his wall. You'll be the dangerous tiger in his living room."

Felicity raised an eyebrow, suddenly reappraising Thea Queen. Thea kept up the knowing, mischievous smile, basking in Felicity's surprise.

"That's an option," Felicity said. She took another bite of food, mulling everything over. When her mouth was empty, she said, "I've also been advised to play nice and keep the peace."

"Peace? Have things not been peaceful?"

"Oh, no, it's just…I had a bit of a tantrum last night when I said I didn't want to meet Slade." ' _Tantrum'_ was a slight exaggeration, but Felicity was imagining her mother's appalled reaction when she heard her daughter snapped at her very attractive, very connected, very _wealthy_ husband by calling his close friend a 'lapdog'. Then again, the whole 'show pony' comment wouldn't have been received very well, either (unless, of course, Donna had said it herself).

"Did you?" Thea asked, eyebrows raised. "Like, how tantrum-y was this tantrum?"

"Not very. Just a little snappish."

Thea humphed in disappointed. "Okay, well, that's a letdown."

"But my point is, I didn't exactly _enjoy_ irritating Oliver."

"Mm, yeah, I'll give that to you," Thea said, probably recalling her own moments of pushing Oliver too far. "But that's what makes this fun. You've got to find the line between frustrating him and pissing him off."

"But I really enjoy not doing _either_ of those," Felicity huffed. She might have cast herself a persona that was all cold heartlessness because that was what worked in the business world, but genuinely Felicity preferred catching her flies with honey rather than liquid hydrogen.

"Okay, _yeah,_ but being gumdrops and sunshine isn't going to make a _dent_ with Oliver. Not the way you're wanting. The moment you stop being a good little girl and start raising some hell is the moment he's going to have to sit up and pay attention. Bust up his armor enough to get inside and _make_ him do what you want."

Felicity pursed her lips and gave Thea a long look. She couldn't say Thea's theory was flawed, but she desperately didn't want to poke Oliver in the ribs and pray he didn't snap back. The fact Thea had come up with it to begin with, though, was pretty impressive. Definitely more than the damaged party princess everyone assumed her to be.

"Thea, you are…"

"Dazzling, I know. Finish your falafel, I've got about one more store left in me, then it's back to Trig I go."

* * *

 _AN Look, I'm not even going to pretend with the mysterious plot thing and keeping the suspense._ _Slade Wilson is A Bro and will stay A Bro for the duration of this story, end of discussion. I love him far too much to do anything else._


	4. plan a

_AN this is exactly the turn you all expected, i'm so predictable, i know, i know._

* * *

Oliver slept through his alarm. That alone was enough to be classified as 'atypical', but combined with the fact that he couldn't breathe through his nose, his head ached, and his throat literally felt like he had swallowed a chain link fence, it was _extra_ odd.

His first conscious thought was ' _I hate everything,_ ' followed by ' _I've been poisoned'_ , and then rounded off with ' _I'm going to miss my morning run'._ They flicked through his head, each passionless and weighing so very little in the face of his everything aching.

Oliver had the presence of mind to turn off his alarm, flop onto his side, then stumble back to sleep. He awoke over an hour later, shaken from slumber by the sounds of someone in the kitchen. He groaned when he checked the clock. He had to get up for work. He could skip his workout, but he had a job to do.

Even though his head pounded and his throat was a ragged mess and his nose began running the moment he sat upright, Oliver heaved himself from the bed. And promptly fell into his nightstand.

He braced himself there for a moment, moaning and cursing softly to himself as the room made drunken circles around his head. He could stand. He could walk five steps to his bathr—nope, no he couldn't. He could go back to bed. Probably.

"Oliver?"

He turned when he heard Felicity's voice. It was hesitant and doubtful, shortly followed by Felicity appearing in the doorway. She was dressed for work, though she was missing an earring and her shoes. They stared at each other for a minute, Felicity surprised, Oliver miserable.

"You're… _here_ ," she said, like she had stalled out of things to say. "I just—I didn't realize. You're normally gone by the time I get up, and the work day is about to start and—are you alright?"

He tried to speak, but his voice came out as a ragged rumble. He cleared his throat, grimaced in pain, and managed something barely coherent.

 _"Okay,_ " Felicity said, creeping farther into his room. She moved like she was approaching a tiger.

"I need to…get ready for work," he told her, vaguely imagining her helping him to the shower. Felicity blinked again.

"Uhm, okay, _no._ Oliver, you can barely _stand._ You're going to hurt yourself," she added, hurrying over as he tried to walk again. She took hold of his elbow and forcibly guided him back to bed. He only allowed himself to sit because he felt sure he couldn't stay upright. Also…he was fairly certain he was sick.

"Alright, let's see…" she said, sitting on the edge of his bed as she looked him over. She checked his forehead, her touch a cool whisper on his skin. "Yep, you're warm. How else do you feel?"

He muttered out an answer, and Felicity gave a patient smile.

"English, Oliver."

He blinked at her for a long moment, trying to understand. He _had_ been speaking Eng…oh, she hadn't been able to make out the words.

"My head hurts, I can't breathe, my throat feels awful, and—" He coughed, making Felicity turn away.

"Okay," she repeated, "how's your stomach? Do you feel like you're going to throw up?"

He shook his head, then grabbed her shoulder when things started swimming again. Felicity sighed. She pressed her hand against his chest, gently forcing him to lay down. She quickly pulled her hand away, fingers brushing against themselves like she needed to rid herself of the sensation. It took him a long moment to realize it was because she had touched the gnarled scar over the puncture wound on his chest, not because she had touched his skin. "Alright. I've got to go to work now, but I'll…I'll see what I can do, okay?" she said, adjusting some of his pillows. "I'll call Diggle, and your EA. But you should email him later, alright? Oliver, okay?"

He mumbled an assent, and Felicity stood to pull the covers over his chest.

" _Email him,_ alright? I'll call later to remind you."

Felicity paused, then straightened. She smoothed her skirt. He voice was a little more formal when she spoke.

"Is there any other business you need to handle today?"

He watched her, realizing she was referring to the Bratva. He shook his head. He needed to sort out a peace agreement with Frank Bertinelli (preferably one that _didn't_ include treating a human being like property), but it would hold until he felt better.

"Good," she said, noticeably relaxing. "And now…get some rest, okay? I'll call later to check in, but now I've got to go. If you feel up to it, there's mint tea in the cupboard and some leftovers in the fridge. Stay hydrated."

He gave a nod, which she returned with a brisk smile. Felicity hesitated another moment, then left his room. Oliver closed his eyes and tried to find a way of breathing that didn't feel so miserable.

He opened his eyes when Felicity returned. She was wearing heels, now, and had put on her other earring. He watched her set a box of tissues and a cup of water on his nightstand, as well as some cough drops.

"I'm heading out, okay? Here's some decongestant," she said, pointing at two pills that had been hiding behind the tissues. He nodded and scooped them up. The front door closing was barely audible over him blowing his nose.

Oliver woke a couple hours later. His throat still felt horrendous, but the medicine Felicity had given him was finally taking care of the headache, and his nose wasn't running as much. He grabbed for another tissue, though, just in case, and sipped the water. He was tempted to roll over and go back to sleep, but Felicity's stern expression kept appearing in his head. He sighed, popped a cough drop into his mouth, and pawed around for his phone.

He wrote an email to his personal assistant, Jordan, tapping out a brisk set of orders. Jordan responded within a few minutes, saying that Felicity had informed him of Oliver's sick day and that he was already adjusting the schedule. Oliver refused Jordan's offer to drop off medicine or whatever Oliver needed, then gave him the day off.

Diggle had left a voice message, checking in and encouraging him to rest (Oliver might have been annoyed at the repeat reminders, had he had the energy). Apparently, Felicity had made good on her promise to call him, too.

Oliver skimmed over a few company emails, re-delegating the tasks he couldn't do from bed. By the time he was just considering watching tv, his phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Oliver! Hey." Felicity sounded surprised to hear him, even though she had been the one that promised to call. "Did I wake you?"

"No," he said. Thankfully he was coherent enough to hold the phone away from his mouth as he cleared his throat. "I've been awake for a little while."

"Okay…feeling better?"

"No."

"Hm, I'm sorry," she said, shockingly sincere. He frowned. It seemed...odd. Felicity had never been so _nice_ before _._ She wasn't unpleasant, but she was a little too cool and mechanically efficient to be considered friendly. She allowed herself the occasional glib or sarcastic remark when they worked together, but the soft tone she used now was entirely foreign to him.

There was a beat of silence, and Oliver found himself waiting for her to offer help, as Diggle and Jordan had. She didn't do anything of the sort.

"Well," she began, and he vaguely realized how awkward this was, "I need to get back to work. I should be back around four."

"Alright," he rasped. A few moments more and they hung up.

Oliver groaned and heaved himself out of bed. He hobbled to the bathroom, quietly hating everything. While he was up and able to take a few steps without being sent to his knees from nausea, Oliver found himself something akin to breakfast. His throat was still raw enough to keep him from even pretending to look at most of the food left in the fridge, but after some scrounging, he found apple juice, a banana, and the mint tea Felicity had made for him before she left.

Five minutes later, Oliver was back in bed. He had a cough drop in his mouth, the box of tissues was on a spare pillow, and a bottle full of mint tea on his nightstand (sweetened with honey, as per the directions of a blue sticky note Felicity had found time to leave). He was going to go to sleep and absolutely not wake up until he felt better.

'Better' turned out to be a comparative term. When he woke again, his throat still hurt, he had to pee, and when he sneezed his nose still wouldn't stop running. But his headache was officially gone, and the world didn't somersault every time he turned his head.

When Oliver returned from the bathroom, he found a plastic grocery bag on the spare nightstand. He frowned and picked through it. Inside was a bottle of cough syrup, a new bag of honey herb cough drops, a book, and a folded piece of printer paper. He skimmed the note, which had been written in Felicity's round, quick hand.

 _Oliver,_

 _I grabbed some stuff for you during my lunch break. Take the medicine as soon as you wake up. The book is something I thought you hadn't read, but might enjoy. And don't forget to stay hydrated. There's popsicles in the freezer._

 _—Felicity_

He stared at the note for a long moment, then opened the package of cough syrup. Felicity had come and gone, leaving an unexpected survival kit in her wake. And he suspected she had gone to the store personally, rather than sent someone to do it for her.

He took the medicine as directed and wandered to the kitchen to investigate the popsicles. He pulled out a strawberry one and began eating it as he returned to his room. The popsicles were soothing on his throat, even if he did feel chilly.

Oliver settled back on the bed, then pulled the novel out of the grocery bag. It was a paperback, featuring a set of paw prints on the front. He wrinkled his nose before he broke into a short coughing fit. When he was done, he inspected the back. The book was about a journalist who had a couple of cats that apparently kept getting involved in murder mysteries.

Oliver was suspicious (the book was bright yellow with _paw prints_ on it), but he was also intrigued by the fact that Felicity had had the gall to suggest it to him. That alone warranted a look.

Plus, the book had not been bought along with everything else. The cover was a little worn at the edges, and the spine had been broken in multiple paces. This was Felicity's book. Oliver wondered if it had been sitting on her considerable bookshelf since she had moved in.

He finished his popsicle, cleaned his hands, and returned to his bed. He drank some water, blew his nose, considered the book.

Oliver heaved a sigh. With an eye roll, he flipped to the first page.

Oliver didn't recall feeling tired, but when he opened his eyes, the light had shifted. Felicity's murder mystery was lying cover up on the blankets, more or less holding his place. Sounds of someone cooking came from the kitchen.

He pushed himself out of bed. Oliver put another cough drop in his mouth (the honey herb ones were _amazing),_ tugged on a shirt, and padded toward the kitchen.

Oliver had never seen Felicity cook before. She was always done before he came home, her latest creation either packed up in the fridge or neatly awaiting him on a plate when he walked through the door. But now she was in the midst of making something, virtually dancing around the kitchen.

She cut vegetables, stirred a pot on the stove, seasoned it with a pinch and a shake. Music tumbled out of her tablet's speaker as Felicity hummed to herself, chipper as could be.

Oliver stared at her, intrigued. He could barely match the woman shimmying before him to the sleek, sophisticated creature he bargained with on a weekly basis. But there had been moments when the bubbly Felicity poked through, he realized. They came in the form of her jumping on the bed in her wedding dress, dryly making cracks at socialites during charity galas, and keeping, then recommending an admittedly charming murder mystery involving Siamese cats. He had dismissed it as an unimportant quirk before, but now it piqued his curiosity.

Felicity turned when she heard him pull back a bar stool. She didn't quite gasp, but her hand did fly to her chest in an amusingly prim act of astonishment.

" _Oliver,"_ she said, "oh, hi! Did I wake you?"

He shook his head, resting his elbows on the granite top.

"Good, good. You should definitely continue to let yourself rest," Felicity babbled on. She moved toward her tablet and turned down the music.

She wasn't wearing heels, he noticed, but had on a neat little apron over her skirt. It pleasantly emphasized her figure, scooping out a homey patch of cream against her severe navy pencil skirt. Her sleeves were pushed up to the elbow, though one was determined to slide down to her wrist.

"What're you making?" he asked.

"Chicken soup," she said. "Good for colds and all that, but also I didn't feel like making anything special tonight. Are you feeling any better?"

"A little," he said. "Can you hand me a popsicle?"

"Do you care which?" she asked, spinning away to freezer.

"Surprise me."

Felicity handed Oliver a lime popsicle, then stood awkwardly in the kitchen. He smothered a smile. Charming as this version of Felicity was, she had a distinct lack of social prowess.

Oliver opened his popsicle and took a bite. It was tangier than the strawberry, making his mouth water. He looked up to find Felicity staring at him.

"What?"

"You don't just _bite_ it," she said, a little more aghast than he felt was necessary. "It's going to be gone in seconds! Plus, y'know, freeze brain."

"Then what is the proper technique?" he asked, giving her an indulgent smile.

"You know, work at it. Suck on it, take your time."

There was a moment of perfect silence before Felicity's brain caught up with what she said.

" _Oh geez_ , no, nope, not like that! I totally didn't mean it in a hinky sexual way, I meant take your time as in really enjoy it— _no_ that is worse, that is much worse and I'm just going to stand here and die from embarrassment."

Oliver let out a disbelieving laugh as Felicity hid her face in her hands. This was _definitely_ not the stone cold business woman he had agreed to marry.

"I think your pot's bubbling over," Oliver said, granting her an escape route.

"I think my _shame_ is bubbling over," she muttered, turning around to tend to the soup.

Oliver watched Felicity pour two bowls of soup and set them on the counter. She recovered from her embarrassment quickly, the blush disappearing after a few moments. There were still the traces of Felicity Queen, in the perfect posture and the careful way she ate, but if Oliver looked closely enough, he could see bits of Felicity Smoak peeking through, too. He would have said it was amazing he hadn't seen this side of her exposed before, except most of their interactions as fiancés had been during power lunches and social gatherings. Not exactly the time for her to show the gawky, unpolished side of her personality.

He liked this part of her, he decided. There was no bartering, no chilly interactions when one of them stepped too far out of line. Sure, Felicity was a little more energetic than he was accustomed to, but if that was what it took for her to stand aside and let him do whatever he wanted…

Oliver hesitated, spoon swirling through his soup bowl. Felicity's attention was on her tablet as she ate, eyebrows slightly furrowed.

Why _was_ she showing him this side of her? They had been married for over a month, so he was disinclined to believe she was suddenly comfortable with him (especially considering the cool indifference that was her default since his revelation about the Bratva). And they had just had an argument last week over Slade, but it was a little late for her to be acting nice as an apology and too soon for her to act like it had never happened. Or was he going about this all wrong? Had her hostility toward the Bratva melted after seeing how removed it was from her life?

Oliver ate another bite of soup, considering. There was a whole host of new options laid out for him, if Felicity truly had changed her mind about the Bratva. Felicity was a force to be reckoned with on her own, but if Oliver was able to guide her in the direction he wanted… But no, that was wishful thinking. He had seen the ice in her eyes when she demanded that she not be involved in any illegal dealings. Oliver was by and large a man of his word, and there was no point antagonizing someone that lived in his house. Not for no reason, at least.

Even if he couldn't use her in his mob dealings, there were still advantages to being on friendlier terms with Felicity. The deal with Bertinelli, for example. That could completely be rearranged. But only if Oliver was certain of where he stood with his wife.

"Felicity."

"Mm?" She tilted her face toward him, but it took a second for her to tear her eyes away from her tablet. "Yes?"

"Are you comfortable with where things are at?"

Her eyebrows furrowed for a moment, and Oliver saw her guard rise ever so slightly.

"Comfortable? As in…business? Or where we live physically? Or…"

"Maritally."

"Well, I'm not _uncomfortable,_ " she said, straightening on her bar stool. "What are you asking, exactly?"

"We've been married for over a month, and I wanted to see if you were still satisfied with our arrangement."

"That's referring to a lot."

"It is."

Felicity considered him for a long moment. The calculating edge had returned to her eyes, weighing out the pros and cons of all her options.

"I'm fine with the way things are," she said, tone somewhere between the warmth of earlier and the clinical one he was used to. "I'm fine with how our lives work on their separate tracks. Business partners that live in the same home. Outside these walls, we're charming and in love and everything high society needs us to be. Inside, though…" She shook her head.

Oliver tilted his head. "Business partners."

"Yes. Nothing more."

"Just making sure," he said, a slight smile on his face. One door closed, a window thrown wide open. He'd have to be careful, though. Just because they had a distant relationship didn't mean he had to be disrespectful.

Felicity carried her bowl to the sink, signaling the end of the conversation. Oliver watched her, adjusting his plans.

She hesitated by him as she left the kitchen, hand reaching out like she wanted to touch his shoulder. She set it on the safe halfway point of the counter instead.

"Feel better, Oliver," she said, then retreated to her bedroom.

It was genuinely a shame that Felicity was uninterested in being part of the Bratva. She could make quite the name for herself, if she wanted. And if she were a little better at smothering her heart.

* * *

 _AN_ _oh you bet your butt i just turned this very serious crime drama into a sick fic._

 _The book referenced here is part of The Cat Who series, by Lillian Jackson Braun. They are very charming in a sleepy, small town sort of way. Except, y'know, murder._


	5. it's just business

_AN oliver queen is barely a decent person on his good days and this story is all about his bad days. this is your final warning._

 _also i just love the idea that oliver swears when he's grumpy okay_

 **Warning:** A scene and continued theme of infidelity.

* * *

Moira and Thea visited the next day. Oliver was genuinely surprised when they showed up at his door, all big smiles and warm hugs.

"Glad to see you're not dying," Thea said, bee-lining for the fridge.

"Glad to see _you're_ skipping class," he shot back.

"Check the calendar, smart one. It's call a _three day weekend."_

Oliver gave Moira a look, earning a smile and a nod.

"It's true, teacher in-service day."

"On a _Friday?"_ he asked.

"I guess it's so kids have hangovers during the weekends, not on Tuesday in school," Thea said, rolling her eyes as she poured herself a mountainous glass of apple juice.

Oliver and Moira shared another look, but secretly Oliver was pleased to see them together. There had been a time following her husband's death when Moira had withdrawn from all motherly duties. Her whole life reoriented around Queen Consolidated and the Bratva. Oliver, already a ranking member in both, had stayed a part of her life. Thea hadn't.

For a while, it had seemed like Oliver was the only one that cared about Thea's education or personal well-being. Not that Thea appreciated his admittedly tenuous efforts. She had seemed determined to widen the fissure between her and her family with drugs and bad behavior. Only a near tragedy of an intoxicated car crash had spared them further suffering.

"Anyway, we came for some quality time. Park your butt on the couch so we can bond," Thea ordered.

The rest of the afternoon was fun, Oliver had to admit. Thea plopped her feet on his lap and threatened to kick him when he threw his tissues on her. Moira watched from the sidelines and made delightfully dry comments about the dramas Thea insisted on watching.

On a commercial break, Thea hopped up to go to the bathroom. Moira waited a few moments after the bathroom door closed before she said, "Have you had any reports the last few days?"

"I've been sick, not dead," Oliver said. Moira cracked a thin smile, eyes still on the tv.

"So?"

"So everything is fine. Bertinelli's getting impatient."

"Frank Bertinelli was _born_ impatient," Moira tsked. "How is the deal coming?"

"We're working on it."

"He must be feeling the pressure. He knows he's not as powerful as he once was."

There were three branches of organized crime in Starling: the Russians, the Italians, and the Chinese. Frank Bertinelli's operation was the last hold the Italians had, and even that barely could boast connections to Costa Nostra. He was more of a gangster than a mobster, hailing back to the golden legacy of the sixties and seventies. The newer management and greater resources of the Bratva and Triad pressed in on him, and it wouldn't be long until he folded.

The only reason Oliver was bothering to negotiate instead of taking him over was that Bertinelli had _just_ enough power to claw out a pound of flesh if he went down swinging. Oliver didn't have time to gamble on whether it was him or the Triad left bleeding.

"You made him nervous when you stalled negotiations back in August," Moira continued. "He's antsy you'll pull out for good."

"We resumed talks. He offered me his _daughter,_ " Oliver said. "That's not something he should push me over."

"Yes, well, he doesn't exactly know you," Moira sighed.

Oliver's disdain for human trafficking of any sort wasn't exactly a well-known fact. Only his close subordinates were aware of it, and even then it bordered on taboo. Bertinelli wasn't to blame because practically selling his daughter evoked Oliver's disgust. Still left him a piece of shit, though.

" _And…_ he's from another age."

Oliver shot Moira a look, mouth curving into a smile.

'That age' was the age of men, the good old boy club that took out hits on men in churches, then sent flowers to their widows. During that time, Robert Queen had been one of the best, trading and manipulating and even abiding when necessary. He had instilled his iron determination and old fashioned chivalry into his son before he had died of cancer five years before.

Oliver, though, he dwelt in the age of _efficiency._ What hadn't been passed down by his father had been learned at his mother's knee.

Moira Queen was a political animal to match no other, and she had taught her son how to eradicate the opposition to his goals, old misogynistic rules be damned. Bertinelli, with his dated ideas on…well, everything, didn't stand a chance against Oliver. And having a cutthroat bitch like China White heading the Triad didn't help, either.

"Are you going to accept?" Moira looked at her son, expression completely blank. She knew how to separate family from business in a way that still made Oliver marvel.

"Everything I've heard says Helena Bertinelli is…a handful," Oliver said grimly. His impression of her was a spoiled underworld princess, throwing around her weight wherever she wanted. Her tantrums were legendary. Or disgraceful, depending on which way you looked at it.

Oliver didn't consider them legendary.

"And Felicity?" Moira asked.

Oliver had told his mother of Felicity's demand for a platonic relationship. She had been surprised to hear that the woman was content to ignore Oliver's Bratva work, so long as he didn't interfere with her working life. Then she had nodded and patted Oliver's shoulder, business as usual. It was clear, though, that she shared Oliver's suspicion that _this_ particular branch of Bratva work might cause some problems.

"I checked yesterday. She made it clear she wasn't interested in anything I did outside of work."

"She might not see it as work, Oliver. You're taking a _mistress."_

He gave her a long look. "I know the risks."

"Then be careful," Moira told him. Then she said, "Other than that, it's been quiet."

"There hasn't been anything from the Triad lately."

"No." Moira's mouth pursed, echoing Oliver's concern. The Triad were hard enough to deal with when the Bratva actually knew what they were doing. "I'll talk to Walter, see if they've been working through their white collar associates again."

Oliver scowled. He didn't have _time_ for sneak attacks by the Chinese. He just wanted everything to go _right._ He wanted the police to fall into his pocket, the public to buy his guns and his drugs, and the other mob families to behave.

"Shame you couldn't make an alliance with China," Moira mused.

"Right. She'd have my head on a pike before she'd _ever_ consider—"

" _Who_ wants your head on a pike?" Thea asked, reappearing from the bathroom.

"Laurel," Oliver said easily. "She'd have my head on a pike before she'd consider letting me take Tommy to a club for his birthday."

"Oh, yeah, isn't she planning some _surprise_ party or something?" she asked, making a face before settling back on the couch. Oliver rolled his eyes as her feet reclaimed his lap.

" _That's_ never going to work," Moira said. "Tommy Merlyn can _smell_ when a party's being planned."

"Y'know, I think that's the sort of thing Felicity would actually be super into," Thea said.

Oliver blinked at her. "Really?"

"Yeah! Wait, where is she, when's she coming home?" Thea asked, craning her neck like she might be able to see Felicity pop out of the closet.

"She's at the gym," Oliver said, thankful that he knew _this_ at least. It was Felicity's first training session with Slade today, and she wouldn't be home until…

Oliver tilted his head, realizing he didn't actually _know_ when his wife usually came home. All he knew was that she was always home before him. Despite the many little changes she brought to their apartment, she functioned like clockwork, sitting in her room with the door closed by the time he walked through the door. Predictable and precise, just as he liked.

" _Well,_ when she comes home, you should ask her. Encourage bonding, or whatever."

"It's not like Tommy doesn't _like_ her," Oliver said. Tommy, by default, liked _everyone._ Even the assholes were given a fair shake, until proven irredeemably awful. Someone as personable as Felicity was certain to be ushered into his personal circle, even if she _hadn't_ married Tommy's best friend.

" _Yeah,_ but _maybe_ it'd be a good idea to, y'know, see everyone _outside_ of business lunches."

"Please, this _is_ Tommy we're talking about," Moira scoffed gently. "I doubt he's _ever_ done anything so official as a _business lunch."_

"Okay, but you know what I mean," Thea said. "Let's get buddy-buddy."

"And what prompted this?" Oliver asked, poking Thea in the thigh. She swatted at his hand, scrunching her face at him.

"I dunno, just…we're family. I don't wanna be stuck talking to Felicity like she's still your distant work-fiancée-thing for forever. She's family now."

Oliver smiled at her, privately thinking that would have been m _uch_ easier to do if Felicity hadn't explicitly stated distance was all she was ever interested in.

* * *

"You sure you wanna do this?" Diggle asked. He toyed with the zipper on his jacket, eyes on the apartment building they were parked next to. Oliver sighed loud enough to be heard from the front seat.

"I already made the deal, Diggle."

"Yeah, but—"

"I checked with Felicity," he said.

Diggle's eyes found him in the rear view mirror.

"You did? You told her that a gangster _loaned you his daughter_ for better favor, and she was okay with it."

Oliver gave him a look cold enough to crack glass and said, "She made it clear we were business partners, only."

Diggle clicked his tongue and looked away.

" _What_ , Diggle?"

"Nothing, just thinking you have a weird ass relationship. This is gonna bite you in the ass someday."

"Not for the reasons you're thinking."

Diggle grunted, a sound that might have almost been a laugh. " _So,_ where does that leave your other _inamorata?_ "

"In stasis," he said tartly. He didn't have _another_ mistress; he'd ended things after his engagement with Felicity had become official. It was a clinical, clean break, like everything else they'd done. No emotions, just business.

Just...on a drastically different scale than the business he did with Felicity.

"It feels wrong, is all," Diggle said, neatly forgetting that, out of the two of them, he had undoubtedly done the most unsavory things. Most all of which Oliver had _ordered_ , sure, but still. His were the hands that did it.

And now it was Oliver's turn.

"It's just business," Oliver told him.

"Do you _ever_ get tired of saying shit like that?"

Oliver gave him another withering look and decided it was time to get out of the car.

"Have fun storming the castle," Diggle said, settling back in his seat. Oliver flipped him off, earning a snort before he slammed the door.

Helena Bertinelli lived in a very glamorous suite, as expected of the daughter of a gangster. It wasn't quite the penthouse, but it was high up enough to have a view of the entire city.

Helena answered Oliver's knock with a cool look and a beautiful navy blue dress. It was a flawless number that fit any time, any occasion. It made her look like a black widow.

"Mr. Queen," she said, the title just lazy enough to sound patronizing. "Come in."

Oliver stepped inside, eyes sweeping the room. It was lush, with pristine shag carpet and exquisite minimalist furniture that Oliver appreciated. He had thought _his_ high rise had big windows, but the exterior wall of Helena's entire apartment was glass. It felt exposed, open for the world to see, though no one was actually close enough to look in.

"It's like living in a fish tank, isn't it?" Helena mused, sauntering past him to the kitchen. Oliver watched her pick up a partially full wine glass. "Care for any?" she asked.

"No, it's still a little early for me," he said.

Helena gave a smile that was all careless canines and black cherry lips. "That's right, you're the _new_ breed of mobster—the one that actually works."

Oliver watched her a moment. Helena, though clearly not _delighted_ at being a pawn in her father's game, wasn't _upset_ , either. She hovered somewhere in between, taking her sweet time before committing.

"You don't seem bothered by this," Oliver noted.

"Well, it's not the _worst_ I could be doing. And it's not like you're ugly."

Oliver gave his own cold smile. "You don't strike me as someone who just _lets_ themselves be traded away."

"And if I said I did it for the good of the family?"

"I'd call you a liar."

"And if I said _I_ was the one that suggested it?" she asked, eyes sliding from the wine glass to his face.

Oliver tilted his head and stepped closer. "I'd be interested."

Helena scoffed and finished her wine. She set the glass down and stalked toward him around the counter. She seemed less like a temperamental heiress and more like a panther.

"How much do you expect to get from this deal, Oliver?"

"Peace, though it doesn't have a dollar sign attached."

Helena gave a bloodless smile, as if saying _'obviously, since I was payment'._ Then she looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time since he'd walked through the door.

"Why do you ask?" she said.

"Because I don't want to deal with any family feuds." The last thing Oliver wanted was to aggravate Bertinelli because his trophy of a daughter (albeit on he passed around freely, when he felt the need) found a new home and set of loyalties.

"You're strange, Oliver. Not really what I'd expected."

"And what was that?"

She shrugged, eyes wandering from his own down to his throat, his collar, his chest, down, down, down. "You're as cold as I thought. But not as…careless. Inconsiderate, maybe."

He tilted his head. Oh, he considered plenty. If she thought he would give her preference just because they were about to have sex with each other, she was incredibly mistaken.

She looked up at him, all big, blue eyes and tempting, pouty mouth. Oliver leaned closer, just enough to make her part her lips in expectation.

"Why did you agree to do this?" he whispered.

Helena hesitated, then said, "Because I will do anything to get away from my father. Even if it means trading on another monster's favor."

"Bold words."

"Honest. You'll let me go when I've served my purpose."

He smiled again, this time doing it all for himself.

Helena was absolutely correct; Oliver wouldn't care in the slightest if she left the city once she stopped being useful. Even if she learned some secret powerful enough to force him to help her (which was at best unlikely and at worst her personal death sentence), Oliver would _never_ keep Helena for sentimentality the way Frank Bertinelli would. And she was too smart to go blabbing about the either of the mobs she was associated with, once she was free. On the whole, she was a fairly low risk investment. Especially if she was as calculating as she suggested.

"That's true," Oliver said, the words practically formed on her lips.

Helena kissed him, like that had been the signal she was waiting for. Her mouth was soft and savage, ready to steal what Oliver had already signed away. He kissed her back, tasting the wine and her lipstick. He pressed her against the counter, hands on her hips.

Oliver lifted Helena onto the counter, her legs hooking around his waist as she undid the buttons on his shirt.

He hadn't been especially interested in amassing a line of mistresses, particularly not the empty-headed mob princess that he normally had to deal with. Now Oliver had to concede that, at the very least, Helena was conniving enough to play any part she needed. If Frank Bertinelli was fool enough only to use her as a cheap bargaining chip, well, it was no wonder his world was crumbling around him.

* * *

 _AN i told y'all this was house of cards._


	6. storm's coming

_AN Oh wow, long time, I know. Life became fairly crazy during the last little bit, but we're back now._

 _I feel like a few words are_ definitely _needed after last chapter. I tried to address it as best I could responding to people's comments, but I'm sure there are plenty of people who didn't write in that have some concerns._

 _So, yes, Oliver cheated in the last chapter. My reasoning for that was quite simply Oliver being a terrible, terrible person in this story. He is not a good man, not even the very morally ambiguous creature we see in the beginning of the show. He currently has no respect for Felicity or even his 'relationship' with her, and assumes Felicity will not care that he has taken on a mistress because he expects her to mirror his own personal disinterest. This obviously is not cool, but that's where we are. There will be fall out later in the story, but for the sake of pacing, later is not now. And, quite honestly, things will get worse before they are better._

 _To repeat the warning I put at the beginning of the story, and have laced throughout my ANs since: This is not a cute, Beauty and the Beast type of story. Felicity is not going to cure Oliver of his badness through her love. Oliver is not hiding a heart of gold beneath his scary exterior. The decisions they make are in no way based on an idealized morality. They are going to behave very selfishly and even despicably, because I want to study power dynamics, and that requires a darker, more twisted version of the characters. It's at the point that I'm even hesitant to term it as 'a love story', because love implies something sweeter, and this version of their relationship never will be. It will be intimate and it will be passionate, but it will not be the happy, kind thing usually associated with love stories._

 _All that said, let's talk about Helena for half a second. I realize now that poor wording on my part made it sound like she was coerced into a sexual relationship with Oliver, and he knowingly initiated it. That is absolutely not the case. Helena was the one to subtly suggest the arrangement to her father, because she intends to use Oliver as an escape route. She never would have allowed herself to enter into a contrived, non-consensual relationship (excepting possibly with the end result of her murdering the offending party). Her relationship with Oliver is absolutely not good, but she is not his sex slave._

 _Glad we got that out of the way. Go be free._

* * *

Felicity tapped her nails on her desk, frowning at her tablet. She glanced at the clock. She was supposed to have lunch with Walter and Moira in an hour, but she would probably be cutting it fine, considering the latest headache from the design department. Honestly, Smoak Solutions was a _computer_ company, not a freaking fashion line. Aesthetics should be the simplest part of the whole process.

She picked up her phone. "Dana, can you get me Design, please?"

"Yes, Felicity. Don't forget you have lunch with your parents-in-law," Dana chirped.

"We _really_ need a better name for them," Felicity mumbled, smoothing a hand over her hair.

"I'll work on that," Dana chuckled. Dana was one of those terminally cheerful people that bounced through life with a giggle and a wink. When Felicity had come back to work after the wedding, Dana hadn't slipped once in calling her 'Mrs. Queen'. While it was certainly convenient, her ease at accepting the change ruffled Felicity more than she would like to admit.

"Okay, thanks, Dana," Felicity sighed.

"Absolutely. I'll get Design for you."

Felicity hung up her phone and looked out her window. Smoak Solutions couldn't claim an entire sky scraper for itself like Queen Consolidated, but it still offered her a very respectable view of the city.

Rain clouds were rolling in, one more storm in the endless procession of Starling's rainy autumn. Soon the chilly winds and rain would transform into sleet and hail, which Felicity was _not_ looking forward to. That was at least one thing nice about Vegas; no one had to worry about getting pelted with ice from the sky.

Felicity's desk phone rang, earning another sigh as she straightened.

"It's Ethan from Design," Dana told her.

"Thank you. Put him through."

Felicity endured a fairly tedious five minute conversation with Ethan, her head of Design. He danced and tried to come up with excuses, forcing her to pull out her ass-kicking boots as she told him to straighten up and fly right. Felicity didn't especially enjoying busting heads to get the job done, but she found it easier if she channeled her inner Moira.

Felicity's cellphone went off shortly after, making her jump. She checked the caller ID, but didn't recognize the number.

"Hello?" she asked.

"Felicity, hi. This is Laurel Lance."

"Oh, Laurel. Hi," she said, practically tasting the way her voice changed from CEO Felicity to brunch-and-mimosas Felicity.

"Hi. How're you doing?"

"Oh, fine, thanks. Just finishing up some work before I go to lunch with Walter and Moira."

"I'll make this quick, then. Tommy's birthday is in a few weeks, and I promised him I'd take care of everything."

"Yeah, Oliver mentioned something about it." Felicity mostly remembered because it had been framed in the complaint that Laurel needed to pick a date so he could fit his plans around it. Felicity wasn't sure what was more surprising: the fact that he had actually shared with her or his casual allusion to the Bratva.

" _Yes,_ well, I'm having a bit of trouble, and Thea suggested I ask you for help."

"I—oh, okay. Uhm, _why_? I mean, I don't mean to sound rude or anything, but I don't really _know_ Tommy. Not well enough to plan his birthday party."

"Oh, yeah, no worries. I'm just a little overwhelmed with logistics and ideas. There are a lot of possibilities that I don't know how to sort out, and I _really_ need a sounding board before I explode."

Felicity smiled. She wasn't entirely sure why Thea had turned Lauren to her, but she appreciated the effort to make her feel included. Maybe she should take Thea shopping more often.

"Okay, so what are you thinking? From what I know about Tommy, he'll be delighted with the fact that there _is_ a party, regardless if it's tailored to him."

Tommy had earned _quite_ the party prince reputation when he was younger, featuring a few helpings of young Oliver being his enabler (not that the tabloids had ever caught a clear sight of him, of course, but Felicity had learned to look for him lingering on the edges). Over the years, Tommy had mellowed and Oliver hardened, but Felicity knew Tommy still loved any excuse to have fun.

" _Yeah,_ but I don't want this to just _be_ another party, you know? If he wanted a rave, he'd go to a rave."

"So where's the hang up?" Felicity asked, checking the clock. She closed down her computer and stood up.

"Well, there's all sorts of _stuff_ we could do—"

"Laurel," Felicity laughed, "if you don't want a big party, don't do a big party. Don't invite the hundreds of people you're _supposed_ to. Keep it personal."

" _Okay._ Personal. Your family, maybe my family?"

Felicity busied herself with putting on her coat to keep from noting how Tommy's father, Malcolm, had not made the list.

"I'm guessing it'll only be a handful of people—maybe ten. There's a lot for ten people to do for a birthday, but it's less than the _everything_ you were facing before."

"Yeah," Laurel said, sounding surprised. "I— _yeah._ Okay. Wow. Thanks, Felicity. I should have called you sooner."

"Thank Thea. I never would have come up, otherwise," she said, waving to Dana as she walked to the elevator.

Laurel laughed, thanked her again, then said goodbye.

Felicity smiled to herself on the way down to the ground floor. This whole 'being nice' thing, while she sincerely doubted it could last, had the very pleasant side effects of giving her the warm fuzzies.

By the time Felicity finished her work day and headed to Slade's gym, her warm fuzzies had been eaten alive. Her lunch with Moira and Walter, while not _bad,_ per se, was not fantastic. Moira had the spectacular ability to strip Felicity down to her core, demanding excellence and grace with every word. Felicity was pretty good at excellence. Grace, however, was not her strong suit.

Thankfully, Walter was a gentler soul. She had pieced together that he was in a similar position as she was; aware of the Bratva and the Queen family's involvement, but opting to exist blissfully on the sidelines. She had never actually _spoken_ to him about it—they rarely found time to talk outside of the usual pleasantries—but he kept well away from the violence and suffering brought about by the mob.

As Felicity sipped her sparkling water and ate and made pleasant chatter, she couldn't help but notice that the whole meal was as frustratingly low-cal as her salad. There was no substance to it, no heft that she could take away and use later. She had been married to Oliver for _months,_ and yet she was still being treated like the ignorant fiancèe. Infuriating as it was, Felicity had to resentfully admit that it was useful...it a totally hateful, nit-picky way.

Information was usually earned through intimidation or trust. And since she had as much luck bullying Moira into submission as convincing her mother to hand out her whole wardrobe to the homeless (an act Felicity was convinced required several forms of torture and federal assistance), she had to work her way into Moira's inner crowd.

Which was going to be difficult, considering Felicity's requested estrangement from Moira's son, and all.

Unless she used _Walter_ as an in, rather than Oliver. Felicity doubted kindness on its own merit did much for a cold blooded dowager like Moira.

Felicity's grim plotting lasted up until the moment she walked into her workout with Slade. It was her third appointment with the man, and she still frankly was terrified he would spring a triathlon on her, under pain of death if she didn't complete it in record time. So far, their workouts had been manageable, but also _painful._ Slade hadn't been joking when he'd told her 'don't some looking pretty—come looking ready to kick ass.'

Of course, since she was coming from work every day, she did just that. The phrase 'walk of shame' took on new meaning as she tried to casually speed walk from the door to the locker room so Slade couldn't judge her fitted dresses and four inch heels. He never commented when she came out of the locker room, though, with her earrings removed, contacts in, and face scrubbed clean of makeup.

Today, though, he smirked a bit when he met her on the training floor.

"What?" she asked defensively.

"I just keep forgetting you're very small."

Felicity rolled her eyes. He must have been holding that back since the first time they had met. Thankfully, he had never seen her standing next to Oliver. Even in her tallest set of pumps, he made her look like a hobbit.

Despite Felicity's fears, Slade's regimen proved to be fairly reasonable. There was no dodging blades swinging from the ceiling, or doing obstacle courses over hot coals, or practically anything that matched Slade's intensity (though every mundane exercise left her shaking from exhaustion, because going easy was for chumps). Today, though, Slade added a new component to their training.

"Now that I know about where your physical ability is, it's time for us to layer in a combination of martial arts and self-defense. You'll be able to get out of any situation that might come up, as well as incapacitate your attackers so they can be identified."

"Nothing like a little bit of vigilante justice," Felicity joked.

Slade gave her a look that was two parts wolf, one part hitman. Felicity sucked in a breath. They were becoming more comfortable around each other, but there was something about those looks that stopped her dead, every time.

His expression softened slightly as he said, " _Vigilantes_ won't be taking care of anyone who attacks you. And it won't be justice."

Felicity let out her breath. Slade's new tagline was probably 'charming, if alarming'.

"You keep it nice and cheery, don't you?" she asked.

Slade cracked an unexpected smile. "I keep it honest. And so do you, it seems."

Felicity fought a smile of her own, surprised to find how warmed she was by the compliment.

Their more or less friendly rapport continued throughout their training sessions. Slade continued to demand the seeming impossible from Felicity, while she more or less managed to meet his expectations. After three weeks of Slade's cross fit/mixed martial arts training from hell, Felicity had to admit she was a _little_ disappointed she couldn't scissor-kick a man to death or something. That level of physical punishment deserved at least _some_ sort of landmark.

" _Theoretically,_ if six goons swarm you, now, would you come out okay?" she asked one day, panting slightly from Satan's Personal Burpee Routine.

"Depends. Do they have weapons?"

"One has nunchucks."

Slade gave the wolf smile she had come to know so well and finished filling his water bottle. "He wouldn't end the fight with nunchucks."

Felicity grinned. She would actually pay money to see him go kung-fu on someone's ass.

"How do you know Oliver?" she asked, following up before the question seemed rehearsed, rather than idle curiosity. Walter and Moira weren't the only ones she had decided to get more info from. While she was _currently_ playing nice, it didn't mean she would _always_ be playing nice with Oliver. It only made sense to gather information before she officially decided whether to wage domestic warfare on him. She didn't mind playing dumb if it was in the name of reconnaissance.

Slade gave another one armed shrug. "He hired me."

She stared at his back, utterly unimpressed. "Okay, _that_ was as vague as you could have been. Let's try again. How do you know Oliver?"

Slade heaved a sigh and looked at her. "I was freelance and he brought me in."

Felicity watched him for a second in confusion, then _click!_ , she got it.

Slade did some sort of undesirable violent work for money and Oliver paid him even more to stay loyal. Only something more had to have happened, if Oliver trusted Slade enough to train his liability of a wife.

She suddenly felt bad about the lapdog comment.

"If I _had_ agreed to go with a bodyguard, would you have been it?"

Slade let out a derisive bark of laughter. "You really think I'd follow you around as you made nice to one percenters and bought dresses?"

"I like to think my dazzling personality would have made it worth it."

"The only thing dazzling about you is how long it takes you to run a mile."

Felicity let out an embarrassingly prissy gasp of offense. "This was a friendly conversation! My run time has nothing to do with this!"

Slade snorted and walked to his office. "Yeah, yeah. Keep at it, Queen. See you next week."

Felicity made a face at his back, but it dissolved into a smile.

She understood now what Oliver had meant about Slade being a good friend. He absolutely was not the person you went to when you needed a shoulder to cry on, but was the type of person that had probably invented 'ride or die'.

Felicity grabbed her things from the locker room, thinking.

Oliver had been serious when he said Slade could be a friend for Felicity. Although, her husband was rarely anything _but_ serious (the only exception being his brief stint as a cough syrup fueled ball of exhausted sarcasm when he'd been sick, but Felicity wasn't convinced that hadn't been a cold-induced disassociation). He had been…well, not _kind_ , but helpful in a way she hadn't expected. Oliver may have been distant and uninterested in their relationship, but on the whole, he'd been surprisingly considerate.

Felicity climbed into her car, chewing over the thought. She _hated_ it when people pointed that out to her, but the facts were mounting in Oliver's ever-dubious favor. Maybe he deserved a _bit_ more credit in that capacity. She _could_ have been held hostage to his will, paraded around in overdone dresses and armored cars and a herd of security. It wasn't exactly uncommon in higher social circles. Most of the women in those situations disappeared into champagne bottles and empty-headed partying. Her own mother might have, had Felicity's father not been an aging, walking heart attack when they married.

Felicity adjusted her grip on the wheel. Things were weird, but they were also okay. She just needed to figure out what adjustments she needed. They hadn't even been married for six months, after all. And offering Oliver a bit of her humanity, rather than her steely business exterior showed promising results. No need to get her claws out _just_ yet.

* * *

 _AN can we all just agree that slade is THE WORLD'S BIGGEST BRO and i'll be eternally resentful the show went with the friend-turned-enemy trope, rather than the bro-miraculously-appearing-in-a-pinch trope._


End file.
